


Of a Linear Circle - Part I

by flamethrower



Series: Of a Linear Circle [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basilisk - Freeform, Canonical Child Abuse, Character(s) of Color, F/F, F/M, GFY, Good Slytherins, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lewis Carroll is such a fucking Ravenclaw, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Odder methods of time travel, PoC, Post-Goblet of Fire, Relationship Discussions, Slow Burn, and why it is a bad idea, poc characters, you are not taking that away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-18 05:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 107,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11284494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: In September of 1971, Severus Snape finds a forgotten portrait of the Slytherin family in a dark corner of the Slytherin Common Room. At the time, he has no idea that talking portrait will affect the rest of his life.





	1. 1971

**Author's Note:**

> The amount of geek research that went into this story basically ups its hit points to ridiculous levels.

“It’s not so bad,” Lily says.

Severus tries to smile for her, but even he knows that it’s a miserable failure. “You don’t know what it’s going to be like.”

“And you haven’t been here before. You just have your Mum’s nonsense to go by,” Lily returns, grinning at him.

“She’s been right about everything else,” Severus mutters.

“Yeah, but I was flying before I got a wand, and you weren’t, so there.” Lily shoves a book into his hands and skips off when the Gryffindor Prefect named Prewett waves for the straggler to hurry up.

Severus watches her go and sighs before he joins the others heading downstairs. Malfoy greeted him, but that had been the words of someone who did it because they were supposed to, not because they meant it. Severus is good at watching out for those. He thinks.

Maybe Lucius Malfoy is just very bad at it. Severus decides to reserve judgement; he’s only known the older kid for an hour.

It takes him almost as long to realize that he hates the dormitories. The bed is fine and the dungeons are fine, but the other boys in his room could stand to go drown in the lake outside. He waits until the curtains are closed around each bed before he grabs the book Lily gave him and creeps back out into the Common Room, which is thankfully empty.

Severus is used to not sleeping well, not when he spends half the night listening for his father to go to sleep before he dares to relax. Lily asked him once, on promise of complete secrecy, if Severus is afraid of his father because of “private” things. Severus was so surprised by the question that he honestly answered no, he just didn’t like being a berk’s random drunken punching bag. Then he got to be indignant that Lily thought he was afraid of his Dad.

He is, actually, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. Not even magic will stop Tobias Snape, not when his Mum was dumb enough to tell his father everything about magic, including the rules, so he wouldn’t immediately run off for a divorce when she finally confessed that she was a witch.

Severus had firmly put that down as Dating Rule Number 1: Only date other witches or wizards, or whoever it was he decided he liked. If he liked? He’s not sure that’s an option, but he doesn’t want to ask. He definitely does not want to listen to Eileen Prince Snape rant off about bloodlines and lineage again.

Just in case there are still older Slytherins roaming around, Severus finds a chair in a darker corner of the room. He’s used to reading without a decent light, too.

Lily gave him a Muggle book, a novel. Inside the front flap of the heavy paper cover is a note in her handwriting: _We’re in Hogwarts, and still we live in different Houses! Not a thing’s changed at all, except that you can take your time reading this one, because I read it first. Then you can tell me every single reason why it’s Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. Love, Lily_

“What are you reading?”

Severus nearly throws the book over the back of the armchair in surprise. The chair rocks up on its back legs before coming down with a heavy thud on all four legs again.

He stares at the portrait on the wall, which is merely watching him, one eyebrow lifted. Right; Mum warned him about the portraits. Severus just didn’t expect any of the magical portraits to talk to him.

Worse, the portrait is asking about the book, a _Muggle_ book. Severus shouldn’t even have it in the Common Room. It could…he’s not a Pureblood. The others might find out.

“I don’t bite,” the portrait says when Severus doesn’t speak. “I’m canvas; it isn’t possible to bite. I just wanted to know what sort of book you had. No one brings books to this corner very often.”

Severus tries not to let on that his heart is still pounding. “It’s fiction.”

“I like a good story. _Is_ it good?” the portrait asks, and Severus dares to peer closer. The portrait is a man with bronze skin and…grey eyes? Hazel eyes? It’s hard to tell in the dim light. He has curling brown hair and his robes are positively antique, even to someone who is already wearing hand-me-downs. The portrait is also wearing a collar that glitters green and matches the robes, though Severus thinks it’s a very odd choice.

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet. I…” Severus swallows and convinces himself that if it’s a portrait, a _Slytherin_ portrait, then it knows how to keep its mouth shut, or it can be bribed. Not that he knows how to bribe a portrait, but he does know how to bribe a person. He can find out. “It’s Muggle fiction,” he whispers.

“So what?”

Severus blinks a few times. “What?”

“So…what?” the portrait asks. “Why does that matter? What’s the name of the book?”

Severus bites his lip before holding the book out for the portrait’s inspection. “It’s this one,” he says, feeling like an idiot.

“ _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_. Sounds like someone couldn’t decide what they were writing about, and just kept throwing topics at paper until it lingered long enough to get picked up by a quill,” the portrait says. “Fascinating. What can I do to convince you to read it to me? I want to find out which subject the author finally settled on.”

“I…what?”

The portrait lifts his eyes from the book’s cover to look at Severus. “Unless you’re willing to stand there holding up the book to this canvas, turning the pages one at a time, I can’t exactly read it on my own. I’m a portrait. Being a portrait is exceptionally _dull_ when there is no one in this castle, by the way, and if anyone tells you otherwise they are either not a portrait, or they are lying, lying, lying.”

“How can a portrait find anything dull?” Severus finally asks.

The man in the portrait tilts his head and then…shrinks? No, he isn’t shrinking. He’s walking backwards, and it changes Severus’s perspective. He didn’t know a portrait could do that.

The portrait spreads his arms, gesturing at his surroundings. It’s a house, a real and very _old_ house. There are windows with a garden visible behind them; it’s night in the portrait’s garden, too. The much smaller man is in a sitting room, painted to scale, that has wooden shelves on the wall filled with tiny painted books. There is a wooden chair on a stone floor, and a stone archway is painted on both sides of the room.

“I’ve read every single book painted into this canvas. That was a long, long time ago.”

“I see,” Severus says, even though he really doesn’t.

The portrait sighs. “I can’t leave the Slytherin Common Room. Actually, I can’t leave this portrait; it wasn’t designed for that sort of freedom.  You’re one of the only people to speak to me in…” The portrait pauses. “What year is it?”

“Uh—1971.”

“First September, 1971. Ten years since someone decided I was worth speaking to beyond random bits of acknowledgement, and that usually doesn’t last long.”

When Severus says nothing, the portrait sighs. “Go back to your dormitory. Go to bed.”

Severus is so used to obeying an adult speaking in that tone that he does so without question. He’s already climbing back into bed, tucking Lily’s book under his pillow, when he realizes he didn’t say anything at all.

It takes him a week to muster up enough courage to return to that dark corner of the Common Room with the Muggle book. He hasn’t been able to read a word of it. It also takes that long for the room to be free of other spying Slytherins, but Severus is honest with himself; the delay is mostly him.

When he creeps over to the corner the next Wednesday evening, the man is about half-size—at least from Severus’s perspective. He’s seated in the chair, which is propped back on its rear legs while the man holds it in place with his boot pressed against the wall. Something black that also glitters like green gold is twining around his hands.

“Hello, tiny Snape.”

Severus almost drops the book. “I never told you my name,” he says defensively.

“No, but I have ears. I’ve heard others in this room use that name to gain your attention.”

“Okay.” It’s a fair point. “What’s your name, then?” Severus asks.

The man frowns. “You know, no one has asked me for my name in one hundred years?”

“That’s really stupid. And rude,” Severus adds.

“You get used to it after a while,” the portrait says. Severus thinks the man is lying; no one gets used to being ignored. “My name is Nizar Slytherin, tiny Snape. Salazar is my older brother.”

Severus gapes at the painting. “I didn’t know Salazar Slytherin had a brother!”

“I imagine there is a lot about Salazar that no one knows, chooses to remember, or wishes to discuss at all,” Nizar mutters. “Besides, I’m stuffed into a corner. How is anyone supposed to know that I exist?”

“I…I guess they wouldn’t.”

“There should be a nameplate on the bottom of the frame. I can’t exactly peer out of here and see if it’s still there,” Nizar says.

Severus double-checks to make sure the room is still empty before he whispers, “ _Lumos_ ” and holds his wand close to the portrait’s aged, heavy wooden frame. “There is a plaque,” he tells the portrait. “The first letter, the N, that’s still here, but…maybe a blasting hex?” he guesses. “Slytherin is still visible, though. People should know about you!”

“I wasn’t a Founder. The first generation of teachers never really get mentioned in the history books,” Nizar says. “It’s a shame, really. We did as much work as Helga, Godric, Rowena, or Salazar, but the way scribes jabber on, you’d think four magicians taught several hundred children every year all by themselves.”

“You’re amazing,” Severus says, and then flushes with embarrassment. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Thank you,” Nizar replies, and he doesn’t sound sarcastic, cruel, or uncaring about it at all. He says it the way Lily does—like he means it. “I’m afraid I am otherwise not that useful or interesting. I remember my brother. I remember teaching. But portraits…I think we’re not meant to remember a thousand years, tiny Snape.”

“Severus. My name is Severus.” Nizar isn’t trying to be rude, but Severus isn’t tiny.

“Severus. Mutilated Latin: to sever.” Nizar looks thoughtful. “I think…I think I knew a magician with that name once, but I don’t recall much. I do remember that he was very talented. Perhaps you will share in that trait.”

Severus blushes again. “I want to,” he admits. “I want to…be great. I want…”

He wants his mother to look at him as something other than a mistake. He wants Lily to understand him. He desperately wants Petunia to leave him the bloody hell alone.

“I’ll make you a deal,” the portrait says. It’s interesting the way his speech patterns shift back and forth between the way kids in Hogwarts talk now and the way they might have spoken hundreds of years ago. “You may come and speak to me whenever you want. I don’t pass on secrets, Severus Snape. No one notices I exist most of the time. Who would I even tell?”

“Why are you offering me that?” This has to be a trap. It’s always a trap. This is the most anyone has talked to Severus since the Sorting aside from Lily. They can only manage stolen moments between classes, or evenings out on the grounds when they can be away from other students who say terrible things about House Traitors. They’re both trying; _he_ is trying, but Severus really hoped Lily would be in Slytherin, too.

Nizar lets his wooden chair drop back down to the ground. Unlike Severus’s incident with his chair last week, that one makes almost no sound. “Whenever you enter the Common Room, you always look behind you, as if you’re waiting for someone to join you, and they never do. I hate seeing that look on the faces of the first-years. It means they have friends in Hogwarts who will never be welcome in this room.”

“You were watching me?” Severus hisses in outrage.

Nizar seems surprised by that. “I watch everyone, Severus. My brother founded this House, but it is also _my_ House. You’re all my tiny serpents, and I will always watch and assist you however I can.”

“Sorry,” Severus murmurs, hanging his head. He should have guessed. Nizar Slytherin did say that being a portrait was dull.

“So far, you’ve not done a thing to warrant that sort of apology.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re a Slytherin?” Severus asks, scowling.

Nizar smiles. “How many confirmations of accuracy do you want?”

“Fine. I…Nizar Slytherin,” Severus repeats, trying to make it real. The plaque was blackened, but it still said Slytherin. “What does that mean?”

“Technically, the family name was Casa de Deslizarse, but the languages in the north…well, if you gave a Castilian name to someone speaking the old Celtic tongues, it was often slurred into Slytherin. After a few years of it just becoming a worse and worse habit, we gave up and went with it. My full name is Nizar Hariwalt de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castilla y Moravia.” The portrait looks like he’s biting back a smile. “It didn’t help to ditch part of the syllable set and compact it into deSlizarse, either. Nizar Hariwalt is half-Euskaran and half-Germanic, so no one slaughtered that one. It means _little war leader_.”

Severus smiles. “Wow. Mine just—well, if you ignore my last name, then my name just means _severed prince_.”

To his surprise, Nizar saddens. “No parent should use their child’s name as a weapon against another.”

“That’s not—that’s not it at all!” Severus exclaims, and then remembers to lower his voice when another portrait on the other side of the room mumbles in sleepy protest about the noise.

“My apologies.” Nizar has returned his attention to the glittering black ribbon in his hands. “That was impolite of me. Sometimes I see things clearly, just for a moment, and then it’s gone again.”

“It’s…it’s okay,” Severus manages to say, even with his throat too tight. He knows that the portrait is correct. He just didn’t want to hear someone else confirm what he’s suspected for the last few years. “It’s still not anywhere near as fab as what your name means.”

“Fab?” Nizar looks confused.

“Uh, fabulous,” Severus explains, trying to figure out how to hide in his robes. That one is far more Muggle than wizard, and he needs to stop using it.

“Oh, the slang is shifting again. That will be interesting. Just don’t ask me to tell you of slang from Shakespeare’s time, Severus.”

“Why not?” Severus asks.

Nizar raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m a teacher, and you are eleven.”

Severus frowns. “You can’t stop me from going to look it up in the library.”

“You’re right. I can’t, can I?” Nizar smirks at him.

Oh. That was…a gift. Severus isn’t used to anything that roundabout, but he isn’t stupid, either. “Do you still want to hear the book?”

Nizar’s hazel eyes light up. “If you don’t mind, and if you don’t neglect to sleep.”

Severus thinks about it. “Only one chapter each night. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You want something else, too.” Nizar seems pleased. “Excellent, tiny Slytherin. What do you want in exchange?”

Severus lowers his eyes; this might be asking for too much. “My only friend is a Gryffindor. I don’t have any friends in Slytherin because I won’t stop being friends with her. Would you…would you talk to me, like you said last week?”

“That isn’t really a balanced bargain. Hold on.” Nizar stands up and walks forward so that the perspective shift makes him look larger again. It’s really, really fab—interesting to watch.

“That’s not a ribbon,” Severus whispers in delight. “That’s a snake!”

“Her name is Kanza.” Nizar holds out his hands so that Severus can get a good look at the black snake twining around his fingers. She has a black belly with grey stripes at each junction of her belly scales, and her eyes are oval hints of pale green paint. Otherwise she is solid black except for that odd green-gold, glittering layer.

“Hey! She was around your neck last time!” Severus blurts out, and then feels stupid again.

Nizar nods. “She was. It’s her favorite place, not least of which because it means she is mistaken for jewelry. Vipers like to be underestimated.”

“Fab,” Severus whispers, temporarily forgetting to stop using that word. “How do you know she likes that?”

Nizar pauses, like he’s trying not to grimace, before he lets out an odd hissing sound.

“Oh!” Severus stares at the portrait. “You’re a Parselmouth!”

“And you’re not running.” Nizar smiles. “Excellent.”

“Why would I run?” Severus asks in disbelief. “Salazar was a Parselmouth!”

“Do you remember when I mentioned that it had been ten years since someone spoke to me?” Nizar lets the black snake climb up his green robe sleeve, where she twines herself around his neck again. When she holds completely still, she does look just like the collar Severus mistook her for.

“Yeah?”

“That particular student wished for me to ‘prove’ that I was Salazar Slytherin’s brother. So, I did.” Nizar sighs. “Parselmouths are not looked upon fondly anymore.”

“Were they ever?” Severus wants to know, curious.

“Yes, we were.” Nizar returns to his chair. “But you mentioned a book, and we made a bargain. Pay up, Slytherin.”

Oddly enough, Severus doesn’t mind paying him.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus sneaks into the Common Room every night it’s empty to read Lily’s book aloud to a portrait. Nizar treats Severus like he’s a person of _worth_ , someone valuable. Lily and her parents are the only other people who do that, and it warms him on the nights the dungeon dormitories feel too cold and too empty.

Nizar thinks it’s funny that a lion, a witch, _and_ a wardrobe are all three the book’s primary subjects. Severus’s only complaint with the book so far is that he wants to hex all of the older siblings for not believing the youngest. He had to look after his toddler cousins on occasion before his father drove away that part of the family. Four-year-old Muggles don’t make up things like _fauns_ , though Severus doesn’t blame the other siblings for being fed up with the idea of tea parties.

“I wonder if it was a magician who wrote this,” Nizar says when the talking beavers show up.

“We’ve already covered Vanishing Cabinets—” the wardrobe “—a Dark Witch, charmed weather, and mythological creatures,” Severus replies. “It wouldn’t surprise me. No, wait, Father Christmas just turned up.”

Nizar starts laughing. “When was this book written?”

“Uhm…1950,” Severus tells him, after finding the copyright date.

“Oh. I suppose I can’t blame the 1800s then, can I?”

“Why, what did the 1800s do?” Severus asks, lowering the book for a moment.

“They were kind enough to present us with Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wild, Jules Verne, Alexandre Dumas, multiple Brontë sisters, and Lewis Carroll, most of whom I’ve never heard read. They have to be entertaining, though, considering how often their works incited students into frothing rages and arguments over who was taking which intoxicants while writing.”

Severus narrows his eyes. “After what I read about Shakespeare last week, I’m not sure I want to go look for any of that.” If they’re all Muggle authors, he has to wait for the summer, anyway.

Nizar grins. “And what did you learn about Shakespeare?”

“That he really needed to get out more,” Severus mutters, which for some reason sets Nizar off into a near-hysterical fit of laughter. Severus judges him for being an odd portrait.

Severus finally has to give the book back to Lily when its story is done. “What did you think of it?” she asks him while thumbing through the pages.

“It was normal until Father Christmas showed up,” Severus says, which makes Lily laugh, too. Maybe the problem is that he only knows odd people.

“Wardrobes that send people to other worlds are normal?” Lily teases him. This means that Severus spends the rest of their free evening after dinner trying to explain Vanishing Cabinets.

Severus goes to the library on the edge of curfew, glaring at the library’s meager selection of novels. None of the names the portrait mentioned are here except for Lewis Carroll, whose book has a picture of a rabbit in a waistcoat on the front.

“Brought you another one,” Severus says later that night. “ _Alice in Wonderland_. If it’s horrible, I’m blaming you.”

“No, you should blame Lewis Carroll,” Nizar says, smirking. “I didn’t write the book.”

“You’re weird,” Severus retorts.

“I’m a Slytherin, and so are you. That means you are also, by association, what?” Nizar asks.

Severus scowls at him. “Shut up,” is his brilliant rebuttal.

They’re in the midst of chapter six when Severus stops and glares at the portrait. “Are you sure you haven’t read this before? _But I don’t want to go among mad people_ , indeed.”

“Yes,” Nizar replies crossly. “If I had money, I’d wager you he was a Ravenclaw.”

“Why do you think that?” Wizard is an easy guess; Muggle fiction doesn’t have a home in Hogwarts’ library.

“Absinthe,” Nizar mutters, which makes no sense at all. “Besides, how many riddles and analogies has this Carroll fellow crammed into this book so far?”

Severus gave up counting after the first chapter. “A lot.”

The next book is wizarding fiction, since that’s what the library has, and Severus doesn’t think he’s ready for anything else Carroll wrote, not yet. He might be dead before that happens. It’s safer to have wizarding books in the dormitories, too, though it’s not as interesting as Muggle fiction. That relies on imagination, where wizards tend to fix everything with magic before any kind of story has a chance to happen.

Severus has no intention of going home over winter break, though Lily does. He gives her what spare change he has until more arrives in a Christmas card—maybe—and asks Lily to buy whatever that will get him that isn’t wizarding boredom as long as it isn’t Lewis Carroll.

“You read _Alice in Wonderland_ , didn’t you?” Lily asks.

Severus makes a face. “He is such a Ravenclaw!”

“There’s a sequel,” Lily tells him, and giggles at the horrified noise he makes in response. When she comes back from break, she brings him a pile of used books that are worth far more than the pittance he gave her.

“It was Christmas. Mum and Dad got some, too, and so did I,” Lily says, kissing his cheek. “Happy holidays and Happy Birthday, berk.”

“Yeah, I uhm…” Severus hands over the sealed phial that’s been burning a hole in his pocket since the fifth of January. “Happy Christmas and Happy Birthday.”

“It’s really pretty,” Lily says of the gold liquid.

Severus glances around and then leans close to her ear. “It’s Felix Felicis,” he whispers.

“Severus!”

“Shhh!” Severus says, clamping his hand over her mouth. “Lily!”

“Mmph-mm!” Lily waits until Severus moves his hand. “But Professor Slughorn says this takes six months to make!”

“If you’re really _bad_ at it, maybe,” Severus replies. “Yes, I really did make it! I didn’t steal it from that moron. I’d be too worried it was poison instead of the real thing.”

“Thank you, Sev…though I’m not sure what I need liquid luck for,” Lily says.

“Not professional wizarding sports, organizations, exams, or to influence the Wizengamot. Otherwise you just pick something. It won’t go off as long as you don’t remove the stopper until you’re ready to use it. If you can’t think of anything for six years, who cares?”

Lily smiles and hugs him. Severus is glad she likes it, even if he’s blundered. He has no idea how to top Felix Felicis for the next time he needs a gift; he’d just wanted to see if he could brew it, which Slughorn said no one could until they were properly trained.

Why is his Head of House an idiot?

He asks Nizar the same question. “Because he’s one of the very few Slytherins your Headmaster trusts hasn’t joined with Voldemort.”

Severus flinches. “Please don’t say that name.”

“Fear of a name lends that man credibility, tiny Slytherin. Don’t fear his name. Fear what that name is attached to.”

Severus looks up. “You knew him?”

Nizar nods. “Not personally. He always thought himself too good to talk to a mere portrait. Arrogant little dust mote. I’ll still be hanging here when he’s dead and gone, most likely.”

“The older Slytherins…some of them think V-Voldemort is some kind of wizarding savior for magical blood.”

Nizar rolls his eyes. “They said the same of Grindelwald, and look how well that turned out.”

When Severus brings down one of the used non-fiction books Lily’s parents got for him, this one based on the legend of King Arthur, the result is six weeks of listening to Nizar Slytherin rant about historical inaccuracies, how Merlin was really not all that great, and what is this romantic nonsense, anyway?

“They have Arthur married to his grand-niece? Are they out of their minds?” Nizar exclaims. Severus laughs and then quickly smothers the sound to avoid notice.


	2. That Child is Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do not forget what you have been taught."

The years seem to pass more quickly as they grow older. Severus mentions as much to Nizar, who is completely unchanged while Severus is still trying to figure out how the reflection in the mirror could possibly be himself.

“It happens. The more you experience, the more your perception of time alters.” Nizar frowns. “It takes work to hold onto a moment, to slow it down in your head. You’re young enough to learn the trick of it. You might want to practice.”

Severus finally begins to make friends in his own House. Lily doesn’t approve of any of them, which leads to several spats, but they always make up. She has her friends and he has his own, but they still have each other. Severus has the feeling that Nizar doesn’t approve of Severus’s friends, either, but Nizar never criticizes him for it.

The portrait tries to teach him Spanish, which Nizar insists upon calling Castilian. It’s a miserable failure. After that, they focus on Latin instead, which Severus finds illuminating and extremely useful. He starts experimenting with words as much as he does with potions ingredients during the summer months, creating new spells. Most of them are harmless, or irritants. The first time he casts _Sectumsempra_ , the results are so shocking that Severus resolves that he is never going to use it unless it’s defend another, or to save his own life. Humans are far more vulnerable than solid steel.

Severus finds a battered King James Bible in a free book pile at the library and takes it out of curiosity to compare to the equally battered T’nakh at home. The results are interesting enough that he packs both of them away to take to school, hoping his mother and her dwindling faith won’t notice. His father won’t care; Tobias Snape is a lapsed Protestant that the church would probably refuse to take back.

Sneaking into the Common Room on his first night of school, after everyone is asleep, has become such a set habit that Nizar is always waiting for him. He listens to the first parashah of the _B'reshith_ with an air of focused delight, one that’s always made it easier for Severus to read aloud.

“I always did want to hear the Hebrews’ interpretation of their own text,” Nizar says. “The Church always seemed to leave out anything that wasn’t appropriately grim.”

“You knew Jewish people a thousand years ago?” Severus asks, curious. “I had the impression we weren’t on this island.”

“I didn’t know you were Jewish.”

Severus rolls his eyes and taps the bridge of his nose. “It isn’t obvious?”

Nizar gives him a baffled look. “What does your nose have to do with it?”

“It’s a…stereotype.” Severus grimaces at Nizar’s continued look of confusion, but he still meets older adults who’ve never heard the word used that way. “Racism.”

“Oh. Idiots,” Nizar mutters. “Besides, if you wanted to see some truly horrific examples of nasal protuberances, you’d find yourself a Viking who’d had their nose broken four or five times.”

“So, a thousand years ago?” Severus quickly prompts. There has been a few times when Nizar becomes distracted, or…something. Whatever it is, it’s blank and frightening enough that Severus doesn’t want to see it again.

“A thousand years ago, Christianity was still the rarest religion in magical circles. But there was still such terrible hatred stirred up against the Hebrews that they often didn’t say a word about their faith. It was safer that way. Then the English banished the entire Jewish population from the isle in the 1200s. For a long time, there were only Jewish magic-workers in Britain, and still they kept silent for fear that a neighbor might turn them in to the Crown. I don’t think anyone removed their heads from their backsides over that until…the 1800s?” Nizar pauses. “No, I think the ruling was earlier. I can’t remember exactly. That’s annoying.”

Nizar starts laughing before Severus can finish reading the same passage of text from the King James Bible. “Not what you remember, huh?” Severus asks.

“No!” Nizar wipes at his eyes with his sleeve, which is odd. Severus didn’t think portraits did that. Granted, Nizar’s is the only portrait he pays such close attention to. “Dear gods, it’s like someone who used to go to Mass as a child decided to write down what they remembered.”

“My mum says that’s exactly what they did,” Severus says, biting back a smile. He doesn’t care for his mother much more than he does his father, but at least Eileen is intelligent. “The man who wrote the first English interpretation of the book didn’t speak or read Latin.”

“And King James has this travesty attributed to him. That’s funny.”

Severus glances up at the gleeful note in Nizar’s face and notices the pleased smile on his face. “Why?”

“His mother was queen of Scotland when the Witchcraft Act of 1563 was penned, but James I is the scrawny little hateful—” Nizar breaks off. “He enforced it, and his nonsense prompted the English to create the same sort of law before Elizabeth’s death. He’s not my favorite British ruler, Severus.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Severus replies dryly, and Nizar smiles.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus always takes a second train on to Cokeworth, since his parents have better things to do than retrieve him from London. The librarian in Cokeworth probably screams in frustration when she finds the bible again, shoved into the mail slot so that Severus could get rid of it before heading home. As he suspected, his mother didn’t notice her grandparents’ copy of the T’nakh missing.

He decides to hide the book in his room. His grandparents were useless, hateful people, but Severus has the impression from a few stilted conversations with his mother that his great-grandparents weren’t horrible. If a battered religious text is the only inheritance he’s likely to get, then he’ll take it. There are worse things to inherit than books.

 His father is already elsewhere for the evening. Severus once again hopes that he’ll stay missing, but somehow the drunken bastard always finds his way home again.

Two incidents happen in Severus’s fifth year that almost break him. The first is the night he nearly dies by werewolf vivisection. He hates that Sirius Black set him up for death, hates that it means he now fears Lupin, who was at least _tolerable_ among that lot of idiots, and he hates that James fucking Potter has credit for saving Severus’s life.

He absolutely loathes Albus Dumbledore for not expelling Sirius Black, as the school’s own rules state should be the punishment for deliberately setting up another student to be murdered. The punishment Black gets is pathetic compared to the crime. Even Severus will admit that if Potter hadn’t dragged him out of that tunnel after discovering Black’s stupidity, he would be dead.

He would have died, and Sirius Black gets a pass. Severus gets looked at by their Headmaster as if he instigated and caused the entire affair.

“I hate him,” he seethes to Nizar’s portrait that night, trying to breathe through a throat gone too tight.

“Which one?” Nizar asks softly.

“All of them!” Severus exclaims, and buries his face in his hands. “But in particular: Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore.”

“Black because he nearly caused your death, and Dumbledore because he doesn’t care.”

Severus nods. “Yes.”

“I don’t blame you for feeling that way about either. I truly don’t.”

Severus glances up to see Nizar looking tired, something he rarely sees. “Nizar?”

“Hate comes so easily,” Nizar says. “And it’s so destructive if it’s unleashed in the wrong direction. All I ask is that you be careful. Sirius Black is going to want revenge.”

“Revenge—he _caused_ this!” Severus keeps from shouting by the barest margins.

“Yes, he did. He was caught, and he feels the burn and shame of nearly killing someone out of ignorance. I know the type. He’ll want to do something to shift that feeling of blame onto another.”

Nizar was right. Severus just wasn’t expecting it to start with Potter, back to old tricks and bullying like the werewolf incident never happened. Lupin avoids Severus like he’s a plague-bearer, which eases Severus’s new terror of fucking werewolves, but doesn’t solve the problem of Potter, Pettigrew, and Black in a mood.

Severus loses his temper. He loses his best friend. He blames those four damned idiots, but he blames himself even more.

“I shouldn’t have said it. She’s right.”

“Did you apologize?” Nizar asks. He still looks tired in a way that’s really starting to concern Severus, but he has no idea how to ask about it. What can make a portrait tired, anyway?

“I did. She said—” Severus swallows down the burn of bile. “She said she’ll never forgive me.”

Nizar sighs. “Children grow up, Severus.”

Severus shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand, I…Lily holds grudges, Nizar. When she decides to be angry, she stays that way.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus’s father dies in September, not long after he returns to school in his sixth year. He doesn’t go home for the funeral; he doesn’t care. He hated that man, and Tobias Snape hated him.  He claimed the title of The Half-Blood Prince for a reason, after all, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. It’s his and it’s him; that’s the identity he chooses.

Nizar never mentions the Death Eaters, despite the growing whispers of their exploits. Maybe the portrait isn’t aware of their existence, as Severus never speaks of them. In five years, he’s never caught anyone else in this corner, speaking to the abandoned portrait of Salazar Slytherin’s brother.

He realizes that he’s made a decision regarding his loyalties on the same day he realizes he’s been avoiding the portrait. When Severus goes back that evening after the Common Room is empty, Nizar doesn’t mention that Severus didn’t come to see him on the first of September, or mention his absences at all. Instead, Nizar teaches Severus the only true rules of life as a Slytherin, ones Nizar says that Salazar also followed.

Do not maim for pleasure. Do not rape. Do not forget those who gave you joy. Pay your debts. Do not mistake kindness as a form of repayment, and do not expect a freely granted kindness to be a debt owed. Remember that a Slytherin is cunning; a Slytherin finds ways to survive when others will perish.

Severus realizes he’s been fooling himself. Nizar is perfectly aware of Voldemort’s activities, and the names of those assisting him. “I’m surprised you’re not telling me to stay away from them,” he says, aware of the bitter tone in his voice.

That same air of tiredness is still painting Nizar’s features, but when he smiles it doesn’t seem as bad. “I’ve yet to meet a sixteen-year-old who appreciates someone else making their decisions for them.”

“But you don’t think I’m making the correct decision,” Severus accuses.

“I have no way of knowing that, Severus,” Nizar says, shaking his head. “I’m not you. The only person who can know that in circumstances like these is yourself.”

Severus feels his shoulders slump. “I think I am,” he whispers. “I can’t see myself making a different choice.”

Nizar nods. “Then the only thing you need to remember is that making a decision today doesn’t keep you from making a different decision tomorrow.”

Severus goes to bed still puzzling that one over. It sounded very Dumbledore-like, but without half of the shit crammed into it that makes Severus want to strangle the doddering old bastard.

The day Severus turns seventeen, he doesn’t see Nizar in his portrait. It’s a rare occurrence, but not alarming. It’s that night when Severus goes upstairs to the Common Room and sees the portrait frame still empty that he worries.

Severus glances over at the other Slytherins gathered around the stone fireplace. They’re all ignoring him. “Nizar?” he whispers.

He doesn’t see Nizar, but Severus can hear his voice, as if it’s coming from another room. “You’re leaving. Aren’t you?”

Severus feels the sharp pang and flush of guilt. “Yes. I—it’s the right thing to do.”

Nizar doesn’t try to dissuade him. He only says, “Do not forget what you’ve been taught.”

He swallows hard. This is the last time he’s going to speak to the portrait. “I won’t. I promise.”

Severus joins with Voldemort’s Death Eaters. He earns praise for not fearing to say the Dark Lord’s name while others still cower. He earns esteem by flinging curses at the enemy, at Dumbledore’s damned chosen champions, without mercy or remorse. He earns true interest from Voldemort by his skill in potions, his ability to brew new and interesting things that assist Voldemort’s efforts to blood-purify Wizarding Britain.

He finds no joy. War isn’t what he expected. It isn’t glory; it’s not what a Slytherin should be. It is imprisonment and terror under the guise of freedom, and Severus is reminded of that every time he sees the Dark Mark on his left arm.

Severus tightens his grip on his wand before each engagement, remembering what the brother of Salazar Slytherin told him. He survives when it shouldn’t have been possible. He refuses to torture, or take pleasure in the horror the way the Lestranges do. Bellatrix is the worst of them, and he initiates a friendship with her based on nothing more than the desire for her _not_ to view him as an immediate, easily accessible target.

These are all the Slytherins that Nizar watched in the Common Room for the last few decades. It doesn’t take long at all for Severus to realize why none of them would speak to Nizar, or why Nizar might have been less than enthused about conversing in return.

Then Severus, all unwitting, makes the worst mistake, one he can’t take back. By the time the point of the prophecy becomes known, it’s far too late. He’s endangered Lily and her child—even Potter, who put in a bit of effort in sixth-year not to be such a complete prick.

Lily will never forgive him, but that doesn’t mean Severus forgets the debt he created by insulting her. He will not forsake her now, not when he’s just broken the damned scales in terms of balance.

Severus becomes a spy. It may be a vain attempt at mitigating the damage, but he will prevent those deaths. That will not happen. They’re all hidden. They’re safe. Dumbledore promised him, and Severus has no choice but to believe him.

On Hallowe’en in 1981, that safety is proven false. Severus almost laughs in shocked grief when Sirius Black is revealed as their traitor. The Potters are dead. Pettigrew is dead. Twelve Muggles are dead. Voldemort appears to be dead, but Severus suspects otherwise.

Harry James Potter, Lily’s child, is still alive.

Severus barely recalls promising to look after Lily’s child. He’ll do it, no matter what sort of boy the child becomes in ten years. He owes Lily that; her death is his fault, his foolishness. He honestly does not know how to bear this sort of pain.

Dumbledore acknowledges Severus’s skill in potions in a way Slughorn never did. Severus is certified, published, and officially installed in a teaching position in Hogwarts by the beginning of 1982. By the end of the term, Slughorn is announcing his retirement. Severus is relieved to be rid of the fool…until Dumbledore turns around and names Severus as Head of Slytherin House.

“There is no one else,” Dumbledore says sadly, while Severus stares at him in disbelief. He is twenty-two years old. The old man has lost his bloody mind. “All the Slytherins of your year, as above and below, turned to Voldemort. They either remained loyal to their Dark Lord throughout the war, or they are deceased. There is only you, Severus. I believe you know how to be a true Slytherin.”

Severus nods; he does know. He’s had that lesson ground into his soul in the harshest manner possible.

When everyone is gone for the summer, he finally ventures into the Slytherin Common Room. He stares at a space that is both familiar and foreign. He hasn’t been in this room since January of 1977.

It takes a ridiculous amount of mental fortitude to dare the shadowed corner of the Common Room. He can see the painted house with its hint of sunlight-highlighted back garden outside, the rooms that disappear beneath the edges of the frame…but not its occupant.

Severus’s Spanish never progressed beyond the basics, despite his knowledge of Latin. He can speak just enough to seek out another. “¿ _Nizar Hariwalt Slytherin, estás ahí amigo_?”

To his surprise, he hears a door slam. Then Nizar is there, up close, staring back at him. “Severus?”

Severus can’t talk. He didn’t expect the portrait to respond at all, or to look so distressed—like it’s been years of concern and worry.

Nizar finally smiles. “You survived.”

That finally makes words pour forth. “I fucked up. I forgot to remember those who brought me joy…and now she’s gone.”

Nizar closes his eyes, but he doesn’t turn away. “I’m so sorry. I’m still grateful that you survived, that you’re here, even! Why?”

Severus tries to smile, but it probably resembles a grimace. “I’m the only Slytherin remaining of the right age and experience to…I’m the new Head of our House, Nizar.”

Nizar blinks and offers him a wide-eyed stare before brushing his hands through his curling brown hair. “That’s—all right, I didn’t expect that. What are you going to do, Severus?”

He’s embarrassed when the words stick in his throat. “I was wondering if I could move your portrait.”

Nizar is shocked for the second time in less than a minute. It would be entertaining if Severus didn’t feel so wretched. “Move my portrait? _Where?_ ”

Severus tilts his head in the direction of the Common Room fireplace. “Above the mantelpiece. The Slytherins that return…they should know you exist. They should know the brother of Salazar Slytherin. Besides, you’re a bit more personable than he is.”

“He did get a bit tetchy when he got older. I remember…I remember that.” Nizar frowns. “Do I? Oh, well. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Severus, if my portrait can be moved, then by all means. I’d like to better see those you are going to call your own.”

“They are going to be, aren’t they?” Severus whispers, trying not to let on how much he just wants to find a washroom and vomit. “They’re going to be mine.”

“That is what a Head of House is for, yes. They claim what is theirs, and make certain the Slytherins they raise are worthy of the name,” Nizar says.

Severus sits down in the green armchair, which feels so much smaller than it did when he first discovered it in 1971. “I can’t. I can’t do it properly,” he says, explaining the task he’s been given, and how long it might last. Severus tells Nizar that he has to appear to be loyal to both sides…and that those who follow Voldemort will expect certain behavior from him.

Nizar is sitting down in his chair, his chin resting on his hands as he regards Severus. “Do what you have to do,” he says. “I’ve learned quite a bit about the man Voldemort became from the Slytherins that muttered about him after you left. I heard more of the war than you might realize. Put me above the mantelpiece, where I can speak to your Slytherins, Severus. I will attempt to do what you cannot.”

Severus nods. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you—”

“They are _my_ Slytherins, too!” Nizar says in sudden fierceness. “ _My_ House! This is not about payment, but about protecting their future!”

“No one else will feel that way.”

“Then fuck them,” Nizar says crossly. “They can go eat a blasted salamander and shit fire.”

Severus stares at the portrait. “I have never once heard you swear before.”

Nizar snorts in dry amusement. “You were underage.”

Severus nods in rueful acknowledgement. “I’m not sure if I can do this,” he admits.

Nizar seems to sigh before he reaches out and places his hand against the canvas, as if he’s pressing his palm to glass. The movement makes his hand larger, nearly life-sized, and reveals scars as well as the lines on his palm. “Go on. Touch.”

Severus hesitates. One of the rules Hogwarts drills into students is that one does _not_ touch the portraits, lest the oils in human hands damage the paint. Nizar is insistent; Severus gives in and presses his hand to the portrait’s palm. He doesn’t feel anything magical, nothing beneath his hands but paint and canvas…but he does feel reassured. It’s an odd but welcome sensation.

“You _can_ do this,” Nizar tells him in a soft voice. “You are a Slytherin, one strengthened by war and toughened by the harshest lessons one can face. Now move this stupid frame over to the fireplace and let me yell at these young idiots when they stray too far from a Slytherin’s path.”

“Should I find a portrait of Salazar to assist?” Severus asks.

Nizar draws back and resumes his seat before shaking his head. “Not unless you can find one of his portraits that hasn’t been tampered with.”

“Tampered with?” Severus frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Mistranslation. Tampering. Perhaps it was an honest mistake; I don’t know.” Nizar sighs audibly. “Salazar preached Pure-blood ideology, but he wasn’t referring to two magicians marrying to produce more magic-workers. He was referring to pure _magical_ blood. He wanted only those of magical blood in Hogwarts. That isn’t a matter of lineage, but of ability.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, I’m realizing that now, and far too late, besides,” Nizar says. “For Hogwarts’ first few years, our caretakers and our assistants were non-magical, Severus. Then one of them betrayed us in a terrible way, and it caused the death of a student. After that, Salazar wanted the castle to be free of non-magical influence. We eventually agreed with him; the anti-magic sentiment in the area was growing as word of the foul deeds of evil magic-workers spread across the isles. Hiding seemed to be the wiser idea, so hiding the castle is what we did.”

“You couldn’t have mentioned this years ago?” Severus asks.

Nizar lifts his hands, a helpless expression on his face. “Severus, I thought you knew. You’re a Half-blood! I would have thought it obvious. Muggle-borns and Half-bloods outnumber the Pure-bloods in Slytherin, just like they do in every other House.”

“The Sorting Hat says only those of Pure blood are welcome in Slytherin House,” Severus whispers, feeling like his world has turned upside down yet again.

“And it’s correct, isn’t it?” Nizar points out. “Pure magical blood. Hell, Severus—I’m a Half-blood! So is Salazar!”

Severus gazes at him in sheer disbelief. “What?”

“Yes. Half-bloods.” Nizar shoves at his hair again when it falls forward over his eyes. “Gods, I’m sorry. If I’d realized you hadn’t made the connection, that you hadn’t realized the true reason you were Sorted into our House—”

Severus shakes his head. “No, don’t. It’s over and done with, but it’s good to know. Nizar…those students who are Muggle-born and Half-blood who join our House. If the opportunity arises for you to inform them of these truths, I would appreciate it if you would tell them.”

Nizar smiles at him and nods. “I will.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Slughorn left him no useful material except for the textbooks Severus himself used to study Potions. Preparing that summer for his first year of teaching in the fall would have been disastrous if he hadn’t had access to a portrait who’d also once been a teacher. Nizar has exacting standards that Severus appreciates, especially when Potions classes begin and he’s faced with idiots who think cauldron explosions are a lark.

Then his role as Head of House and teaching eats up most of his time. Experimenting with potions over the summer eats up the rest. He doesn’t want to think on what had been. If he is busy concentrating on other tasks, the past has less opportunity to nip at his heels.

He discovers that he isn’t a great teacher. He’s not sure if it’s because of the role he is playing and the appearance of hostility he still needs to maintain, or if he simply doesn’t have the patience for it. The young dunderheads have books, though. If Severus could read them and learn, they have the same capacity. None of them are illiterate, even if they act like it.

Severus earns his status as most-hated teacher in the school by 1984, a new record. He earns his Mastery by 1985, which is an amazing accomplishment considering his schedule, one fueled mostly by spite.

He wishes he could take pride in, or care, about either achievement.

It seems like no time at all has passed before it’s 1991. Harry James Potter comes to Hogwarts on the first of September. Severus watches the rangy, underfed child, seeing the way his robes seem to hang off of him despite being tailored to fit in London, and takes note of glasses that have been repaired more than once. Someone might have gone after them with magic, but the original fracture lines remain.

Potter’s eyes are emerald green, like Lily’s had once been. In every other aspect, the boy is a pale-skinned reflection of his father, except James Potter had never looked so utterly baffled by everything around him.

The boy is nearly a bloody Hat Stall until the Hat finally shouts, “Gryffindor!” Severus tries not to grind his teeth; one more step towards young Potter becoming like his father. Still, better that than Slytherin, where Potter would have been castigated—or worse, turned into the sort of creature that Voldemort became.

Dammit, why couldn’t the Hat have chosen to put the child in Ravenclaw? It would have settled Severus’s nerves.

As the term progresses, Severus is more direly certain that James Potter decided to pass on all of his worst traits to Harry Potter. Severus is also certain that Albus was stupid enough to place the child into Petunia Dursley’s keeping, which might explain Potter’s continued bewilderment in regards to the presence of regular meals.

“Maybe,” Nizar says, after Severus voices his opinion to the portrait once the Slytherins are at least in their dormitories for the evening, if not in bed. “Worst traits, though…I think you’re overlooking something, Severus.”

“Oh?” Severus tries not to roll his eyes. “What would that be?”

“From everything you told me, James Potter always trusted in the adults in this school to look after him, to have his back, maybe even to defend his misdeeds.”

“Yes…” Severus frowns. “Dammit. You’re right. Potter is the exact opposite.” Lily would be horrified to see that her son has the same distrust of authority figures that Severus developed about three seconds after birth. Severus is appalled that he has any traits in common with Potter’s spawn, but at least that isn’t his fault.

He is a spy pretending to be loyal to Voldemort, and still he is not allowed to kill Petunia Dursley. He lives under some very stupid rules.

“Why do you hate this child so much?” Nizar asks Severus in blatant amusement after Severus has been seething in front of the fireplace for at least a solid hour, striding back and forth as he rants aloud. To be honest, he’s not certain what he’s angry about, just that he _is_. He is bloody fucking furious!

“Because he is everything that was terrible about his father!”

“The sins are passed from one generation to the next, then?” Nizar gives him a wry look. “The Christians of my time preached such, but I don’t think this is what they meant, Severus.”

Severus pauses in front of the fireplace. “I have to hate him,” he murmurs. “That was Voldemort housed in Quirrell’s body. He’s alive, Nizar. If I give any hint that I tolerate Potter’s existence, Voldemort may attempt to…I might not be able to stand the brat, but I will not break my promise.”

“I understand.” Nizar waits for Severus to pace back and forth a few more times. “You should find something that brings you joy. You have none in your life.”

“Yes, I do,” Severus replies, and then scowls to bite back the rest of the words.

“Brewing, while an enjoyable pastime, does not count.”

Severus feels his lips curl up in an unwilling smile. “You bring me joy,” he admits. “I don’t care if you’re a mere portrait. You are a friend. Does that not count as a joy?”

Nizar is silent for a long time. Severus feels his heart hammering over that ridiculous confession. Finally, he forces himself to look up at the painting.

Nizar has his hand pressed to the canvas again. “I don’t have anyone,” he says, his eyes strangely vibrant. “My family, my children, my friends—they’re all gone. Yes. I think it counts as a joy.”

Severus lingers in the castle that summer and does his brewing in his own office. He spends more time in the evening in the portrait’s company, finding understanding in Nizar’s portrait when he can’t find it anywhere else. Nizar is also not above verbally destroying him, which is far more entertaining than it should be.

The school term resumes in September in grand fashion as Weasley and Potter crash a car into a fucking tree. Dressing down those two idiots on the first day of school—an entirely justified verbal evisceration—is a pleasure. Weasley is, for once, more terrified of what Molly Weasley is going to do to him to worry about Severus, and well he should be.

Potter is just terrified that he’ll be sent home. The image Severus catches of barred windows is chilling, and leeches all of his enjoyment out of the process. He’s grateful Minerva turns up at that moment to collect them, because he has no idea what in the hell he might say or do in response.

After putting his thoughts in order, Severus goes to see Albus. Those bars had been both literal and symbolic. Potter isn’t an Occlumens, but he is very good at burying things he truly doesn’t want others to see.

“Yes, Arthur reported to me on the barred windows after Molly informed him as to what the children found when…illicitly retrieving him.”

“Illicitly?”

“The Weasleys were concerned when Harry wrote to no one over the summer, but it was Fred and George’s idea to, ah, borrow the family car,” Albus says.

Severus doesn’t slap his hand over his face, though it’s a near thing. “Of course.”

“It did solve the problem of the barred windows, as the twins chose to simply remove them.” Albus gives him a thoughtful look. “I’d request you cease using Legilimency against our students, but in Harry’s case, it may be the only way we learn anything of substance. I’m afraid Minerva and I didn’t realize how fragile his trust in us could be. The events of last term, of not being available in my case, and in outright disbelieving him in Minerva’s…I fear it will be a long time before he feels comfortable in actually confiding in us, if ever.”

“Learned that lesson at last, did you?” Severus asks in narrow-eyed displeasure.

“I did have that failing pointed out in terrible fashion, yes.” Albus sighs. “And the incident at King’s Cross?”

“The barrier sealed to them, that much is true. As to the theft of the car…” Severus grinds his teeth. He’d truly hoped it would be otherwise, and now he has to admit it. “That was entirely Weasley’s bird-brained idiocy, even if Potter acted as his accomplice. I look forward to the Howlers that Molly is going to inflict upon her dunderheaded offspring.”

“Mm. Ronald had some rather unfortunate influence in the matter of car theft from the twins. He might not be the only one receiving such correspondence.” Albus frowns. “In light of those bars, I believe I’ll ask Minerva to hold off on informing Petunia and Vernon Dursley as to their nephew’s antics. I don’t wish to encourage a return of the bars.”

Severus shakes his head in disgust. He’d suspected Albus had placed that child with one of the worst people in existence aside from himself, and this confirms it. “If you do, Petunia will only be disappointed that they didn’t die in the crash.”

“I’m sure concern for her nephew—”

“Petunia hated her family so much that she left them the moment she finished school, and her only other sight of them was as they lay in their respective caskets,” Severus snaps at him, and leaves Albus’s office. One lesson learned, perhaps; so many others, not at all.

Then some fool opens the Chamber of Secrets. Severus settles in for another year of hell in regards to trying to keep Potter from being a complete Gryffindor.

“The boy is a Parselmouth. A bloody Parselmouth!” Severus exclaims late that night, sitting on the Common Room sofa and staring at the flames in abject disbelief. “Why does no one tell me these things?”

“A Gryffindor Parselmouth. Oh, that must have everyone up in arms,” Nizar observes dryly. “They think he’s the one opening this Chamber of Secrets, don’t they?”

“Along with the accusations of Potter being the Heir of Slytherin,” Severus adds.

Nizar laughs outright. “Everyone’s lost their bloody minds, just like last time.”

Severus looks up. “Last time?”

Nizar nods. “Mm. In the 1940s, a Parselmouth opened the Chamber and used its contents to murder a student. Myrtle was her name, I believe. Then some _idiota_ decided Rubeus Hagrid and his bloody pet Acromantula did the deed, despite the fact that the girl’s manner of death was not caused by Acromantula venom.”

“You mean Voldemort,” Severus says, and then realizes he’s gripping the Mark on his arm so tightly that it hurts. He releases his hold and tries to shake sensation back into his fingers.

“He was the only Parselmouth in the school at the time, so it’s a logical conclusion,” Nizar says. “Convenient that Tom Marvolo Riddle was the one to expose the ‘culprit,’ isn’t it?”

“Convenient. Yes.” Severus feels ill. “You’re certain Potter isn’t doing it?”

“Given the fact that the child didn’t even know he was speaking Parseltongue until everyone lost their fucking minds over a bit of hissing?” Nizar nods. “He’s not your culprit, Severus, but his being a Parselmouth may be the means for you to find out who _is_ opening this Chamber. He’s the only person who can understand the language aside from myself.”

“And I can’t exactly carry your portrait around the school,” Severus says.

“No.” Nizar hesitates. “Carry a hand-held mirror, instead. Use it around corners.”

Severus looks up at the portrait. “Why?”

Nizar is cradling Kanza in his hands again, a faint crease marring his forehead. “A suspicion, one that I desperately hope is incorrect.”

When the students have gone home for the summer, Severus goes to the Common Room. “I hate you.”

Nizar looks up from what seems to be the uninterested contemplation of a book. “Basilisk?”

“Yes.” Severus scowls down at the fireplace. “You could have just said so.”

“I wasn’t sure. Do you know how desperately I wanted to be _wrong_? Severus, that basilisk was Kanza’s brother.”

Severus blinks a few times and glances up. Kanza isn’t anywhere in the frame or on Nizar’s person. “Kanza is a _basilisk_?” he asks, horrified.

“And that reaction is why I don’t tell anyone. It’s even worse than mentioning you’re a Parselmouth.”

“I’ve looked that serpent in the eyes, Nizar.” A basilisk is a pit viper. Nizar had given a true answer, if not the complete answer. “Is it merely because she’s a portrait that nothing untoward happens?”

“No. Basilisks have two sets of eyelids.” Nizar’s shoulders are slumped in tired dismay. “Basilisks are _protectors_ , Severus. For this one to have acted in the manner it did…”

“The Dark Lord,” Severus realizes

“Yes.” Nizar peers at him. “Dark Lord. Not Voldemort?”

“After last term, I need to resume certain…habits,” Severus replies, thinking on what a careful balancing act it was to both use and not-use Voldemort’s name. “Kanza remembers having this sibling?”

“She’s a magical portrait, just as much as I am. Of course she does.” Nizar shuts the book. “And I wasn’t certain it was Jalaf until some of your Slytherins finally started uttering the word Petrification in this room. I told them to tell you, since you’ve been understandably busy. I’m assuming they did not do so.”

“I’ll kill them,” Severus growls.

“They’re just children, Severus, and they were frightened,” Nizar reminds him. “I take it your Parselmouth found the culprit?”

“Yes. A student being directly influenced by one of Voldemort’s former possessions.”

“Please tell me someone made that possession an ex-possession,” Nizar says in a flat voice.

“Potter did. With a basilisk fang. While in the middle of dying from a basilisk bite,” Severus replies. “I currently owe my mental stability to the actions of a phoenix.”

Nizar stares at him. “Severus, that child is insane, and it has _nothing_ to do with his being a Gryffindor.”

“I am aware of that, thank you.”


	3. The Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't need magic to be cunning.

Albus hires Remus Lupin as their next attempt at acquiring a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Severus remains terrified of werewolves, but now he can brew Wolfsbane and feel like he doesn’t need to barricade his door with furniture every night. Lupin is still at least tolerable…and from the looks of his wardrobe, bordering on destitute.

Severus would be fine with Lupin’s employment if Sirius Black didn’t choose the same school term to break out of Azkaban. Albus calls for an emergency staff meeting, which takes place after curfew following the Start-of-Term feast.

 “Twelve years, and then he decides it’s time to somehow escape the unescapable,” Severus growls under his breath.

“I’m not exactly pleased with his timing, either,” Lupin says. “I’m also not pleased with the Dementors lurking about, especially the one who invaded a train car and tried to attack Harry.”

Severus feels a muscle under his eye twitch. God take it, the brat wasn’t even _doing_ anything for once.

“You’ve had no communication with Sirius this year, Remus? Nothing at all?” Albus asks.

Lupin shakes his head. “I haven’t spoken to Sirius since before Hallowe’en in 1981, Albus. I certainly had nothing to say to him afterwards.”

“Can we not get rid of the blasted Dementors, Albus?” Minerva asks. She’s spent the entire evening scowling. Her House is probably more terrified of her at the moment than of the Dementors or Black.

“It’s a Ministry decree, for the safety of our students,” Albus reminds them. “It is, unfortunately, not my decision to make. I can order that they remain away from the school grounds, but I cannot send them back to Azkaban.”

This school term might prove to be worse than the previous one, but at least Severus has the comfort of knowing that Potter is _not_ going to Hogsmeade. He still doesn’t put it past the boy to try, given his father’s history. He already has to begin his weekend earlier than preferable to brew Wolfsbane, so he will have time to make certain Potter is still in the bloody castle.

Instead of a missing child, he notices Potter sitting on the short riser that leads back down into the Entrance Hall, with its view of the Great Hall and the Grand Stair. Potter has company; a Gryffindor first-year Muggle-born named Edward Black is sitting on the opposite edge of the riser. Given what Severus has heard, the child is probably sick to death of telling people his origins, and that he is not related to _those_ Blacks, or that particular Black the Dementors are searching for.

Severus casts a Disillusionment Charm and moves closer. If Potter decides to adopt a Muggle-born Black, he direly wants advance notice.

“You’re not going to Hogsmeade?” Black is asking Potter.

Potter shrugs. “Didn’t get my permission slip signed.”

“How come?”

“My relatives don’t like me very much.” Potter glances at Black. “Is this nosiness or curiosity?”

Black shifts in place. “It can’t be both?”

“You’re Ed, right?”

“Edward!” Black looks appalled. “My name is Edward! My Mum can call me Ed, but no one else. I don’t even let my Dad do that.”

Potter smiles. “Fine. Edward. Sorry, it seems like everyone wants to shorten their name.”

“Not me. Not you, either.”

“The only thing shorter than Harry is _hair_ ,” Potter says dryly.

“Well.” Black gives Potter another shy look. “It’d be sort of accurate, right?”

Potter puts one hand into the black mess he calls his hair and tugs. “Yeah, but I probably have enough horrible nicknames based on last year’s stupidity. I don’t think I need another one, whether it’s accurate or not.”

“Why? What happened last year?” Black asks.

“I’m surprised you haven’t been told about it by everyone in Gryffindor.”

Black hunches his shoulders and lowers his head. “I don’t, uh, I don’t really have friends in Gryffindor yet. Well—I think Ginny Weasley might like me. Oh, God—not _like-me_ like-me! Friendship like-me!”

Potter seems to be making a go of not smiling in the face of Black’s high-pitched concern. “It’s fine. I don’t really have a lot of friends, either.”

“No way,” Black says at once. “You totally have a lot of friends.”

“Why would I?” Potter asks in confusion.

“Because you’re—you’re you! Just because I’m Muggle-born doesn’t mean I can’t read the _Prophet_ when someone’s done with their copy,” Black says.

Potter raises one hand and ticks off his fingers. “Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, George. That’s it, Edward.”

“But…that can’t be right.” Black is frowning. “I’ve seen loads of people talk to you.”

This time, Potter does smile. “Edward, there’s a huge difference between someone being polite and someone being your friend. Almost everyone in the school spent most of last year terrified of me.”

Black frowns. “Er…why?”

Potter then gives the first-year a brief summary of last term’s events, including the fight with the basilisk. As if Severus wanted to reminded of that again so soon. He does note that Potter is careful to omit Ginny’s name, and only says it was a student in trouble.

“Wait. Hold on. Let me…” Black’s expression scrunches up. “So, you can talk to snakes, but you didn’t know you could talk to snakes.”

“Yeah.”

“And…no one believed that you didn’t know,” Black says.

“Yep.”

“And that you would open a chamber with a mad basilisk in it…and only Petrify random people with it instead of people that you didn’t like?” Black asks in disbelief.

Potter bursts out laughing. “Are you sure you were Sorted into the right House? I mean, you’re _right_ , but…”

Black ducks his head again. “I’m sure. The Hat said Gryffindor right away, so that means it’s correct, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.” Potter looks at Black. “Don’t tell anyone?”

Black shakes his head at once, sensing the passing of a secret. “Not ever. I promise!”

“I argued with the Hat. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to, but it started talking, so I talked back. That’s polite, right?” Potter asks Black.

“Sure,” Black replies. “Mum’s all over me about good manners. The Hat didn’t speak to me, though. What did it say?”

“It was debating over Slytherin or Gryffindor. I told it Gryffindor. I was prepared to sit on that stool all night to convince it, too,” Potter says.

Severus grinds his teeth. It’s nice to know that he was correct, but he’s still angry that the Hat didn’t suggest anything _else_.

“Why?” Black is staring at Potter, wide-eyed.

“I met Malfoy before I met the Hat. Otherwise, I might not have worried about it. Have you met Draco Malfoy, Edward?”

“Oh. Him. Yeah.” Black drops his gaze back down to the floor.

Potter gives him a sharp look. “Has Malfoy hurt you?”

 _One would think you actually cared_ , Severus muses, but it’s a lie he has to keep telling himself. Children who don’t care do not fight ghosts and basilisks to keep another child from dying.

Black shakes his head. “No, he’s just shoved me down a few times and laughed about it. Said if I was a _real_ Black, I wouldn’t be so helpless.”

Potter frowns. “Edward, being shoved around means that you’re being hurt.”

Black shrugs in response. “I wasn’t bleeding or nothing.”

“So you have to be bleeding, bones broken, or otherwise dying for it to matter? That’s rubbish,” Potter says.

Black gives him a confused look from beneath the reddish-brown curls of his hair. “Why do you care?”

“I live with three bullies. I don’t much care for that sort, whether they’re magical or not,” Potter replies.

Whatever the two might say next is interrupted, infuriatingly, by Ginevra Weasley. “Edward, come on! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Black blushes and tries to hide beneath his hair again. “Uh—”

“We can’t play a decent game of Snap without another player—oh, hi Harry! You can come, too!” Ginevra invites Potter when she notices who’s sitting with Black.

Potter smiles. “No, it’s okay. I’d rather just roam around for a bit.”

Black looks at Potter as if he’s the worst sort of traitor. “No, come with me!” he whispers in dismay.

Potter just grins. “Have fun, guys!”

Miss Weasley retreats with her captured Gryffindor. Potter waits until they’re out of sight up the Grand Stair before he rises and heads for the stairs, too, but he’s no longer smiling.

Sirius Black gets into the castle at some point that afternoon, shredding the portrait that blocks the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room. Severus swears viciously over the idea that he has to be grateful to Remus Lupin, who had Potter with him in his office. If Potter had been hall-roaming, as he’d said, Severus has no idea what might have happened.

Severus tells Nizar about his day that evening, when it finally bloody well ends. He was in no mood to search the castle for Sirius Black, either, but delightful thoughts of what he’d _do_ to the bastard if Severus found the man provided a pleasant distraction.

“I honestly cannot decide if I want to thank Draco for ensuring Potter did not end up in Slytherin, or if I want to wring his neck for being the worst sort of example of a Slytherin before those children could even arrive in Hogwarts!”

Nizar shakes his head. “You’re the one who thinks it would have been a terrible idea, but if you thank Draco for anything without context, he’s going to make assumptions and then strut around like a peacock.”

“He does quite enough of that already,” Severus says. “I’m still displeased with the revelation that Draco is imitating Sirius Black instead of his own father.”

Nizar grimaces. “Lucius was a twit. At least prefer that the child be acting more like his mother.”

Severus nods. “That is a valid point, and would definitely be preferable.”

“I’d also prefer you not let any of this drive you into alcoholism,” Nizar says.

Severus glances down at his half-empty glass, which reflects the gentle glow from the dying fire. “Just the one. I also have many reasons not to let that become true.”

Nizar falls silent for a moment. “I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

“No.” Severus decides he’s had enough to drink for the night. “My father was an alcoholic. I have no wish to follow in his footsteps.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You never talked about your father before,” Nizar says quietly.

Severus kicks an ember back into the fireplace when it is spat out by the heat. “Beyond his being an alcoholic, there really is not much to tell.”

“Given the sheer amount of murder burning in your eyes right now, I know you’re lying, but I won’t pry.”

“Murder?” Severus repeats, amused.

“It’s rather obvious,” Nizar says. “If that’s the expression you walk into a classroom with, it’s a wonder they don’t all soil themselves.”

Severus inclines his head. “That would explain why certain children from the other three Houses cannot stop stuttering in my presence.”

“And what about your favorite child—I mean debt?” Nizar corrects himself, but he’s smirking when Severus glances up. “Is he one of your stutterers?”

“No.” Severus lets out a humorless laugh. “If he responds to his relatives the same way he responds to my classroom persona, it’s a wonder they didn’t murder Potter.”

He knows better, though. Severus doesn’t have a say in when, or if, Potter receives a meal. That sort of power hanging over a young one’s head changes quite a bit. It would probably be more accurate to say that it’s a miracle the Dursleys didn’t kill Potter just to be rid of him. Severus still cannot go rid the world of Petunia Dursley, even if he grows ever more certain she may well have earned the pleasure.

This school term progresses with no one managing to capture Black, even though the fucking Dementors once again try to kill Potter. Severus still can’t blame the child, who was doing nothing yet again, unless Dementors are somehow infuriated by Quidditch. Black keeps getting into the castle somehow, and even gains access to the Gryffindor dormitories. Why he then went after Weasley instead of Potter is beyond Severus’s comprehension. Azkaban must have driven Black insane.

Severus isn’t wrong about Black being insane, but it’s galling to discover that the man is innocent. Peter Pettigrew is alive. Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper for the Fidelius Charm.

He is going to strangle that rat to death with his bare damned hands.

Then the full moon rises. Severus has no time to panic about a werewolf; he has to keep a bunch of other idiots from dying. He almost loses Potter to the blasted Dementors, but the child is saved by the intervention of a stag Patronus that charges across the lake to clear their path.

He doesn’t know who or how, and he doesn’t have time to care. He still has to play a role, this time as the smug bastard who ‘caught’ Sirius Black. He hopes Albus has a plan for this, because Severus’s thoughts are racing in sixteen different directions at once while trying to keep up with it all.

The plan that is cobbled together while he has to deal with blasted Fudge makes Severus want to strangle his employer, but even he has to admit that it worked. Severus would just like the man to stop using underage children as his bloody minions. Black isn’t dead, to his regret, but if Black dies it should at least be for something he _did_ do. Lupin will be leaving the Defence post at the end of the year.

Potter is unharmed. No one died. He should be relieved.

Instead, Severus is sitting in front of the Common Room fireplace, breathing his way through what he suspects is a borderline blackout panic attack. “Severus. Listen to me. This place is safe. It has always been safe. Dammit, _please_ listen to me. I can’t actually get out of this stupid portrait, you know!”

“I know,” Severus rasps, bent over with his eyes focused on the hearthstones.

“Oh, good. You’re talking. I was worried it would be one of the bad ones.”

“Not this time.” Severus swallows and keeps breathing. “It helped that it was not a bloody tunnel.”

“I imagine it would,” Nizar says. “What happened to the damned Wolfsbane?”

“Someone got too excited by the opportunity to kill another, and for once, it wasn’t me,” Severus says dryly. “Lupin was gone from his office when I brought him the stupid potion.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

The school term for September 1994 through June 1995 is a complete disaster. That’s all that Severus can think to call it. Someone casts a powerful Confundus Charm on the stupid goblet so that it adds Potter’s name to the Tournament. The First Task is literally a draconic nightmare. The Second Task sees someone stealing him clean of gillyweed, and to his surprise, it _isn’t_ Potter. Other potions ingredients are vanishing from his stores, all of them for Polyjuice, but Miss Granger is otherwise occupied.

The absolute worst moment occurs when Potter brings himself back from Little Hangleton, bleeding and screaming over a Hufflepuff corpse. Then Barty Crouch Junior outs himself as not dead and completely out of his damned mind, swiftly followed by Cornelius Fudge outing himself as a complete blithering idiot.

The end of that term is the only time Severus argues against Albus’s ruling to send the boy back to Surrey. Voldemort is alive. Potter witnessed his resurrection—Potter has already had his first blasted _duel_ with the Dark Lord! Surrey is not safe. Petunia has never been safe.

Albus insists that the blood magic from Lily’s sacrifice will protect Potter from Voldemort. Severus chooses not to say several dozen foul words and instead points out that the magic might only apply to Voldemort. What if someone else dares to cross that protective magic?

“It cannot happen,” Albus says, calm and unconcerned. “No one who intends harm to Harry Potter will be able to enter that home.”

Severus glares at him. “Then why has that house not ejected the Dursley family onto the street?” he asks, and leaves when he doesn’t hear a satisfactory or useful answer. Neglect, starvation, and potential physical abuse; if that blood protection is true, then the Dursleys would no longer be able to live there.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Severus has no say over Potter’s life, and indeed, he can’t afford to have it.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Dumbledore wants you to teach that boy Occlumency. Mind magic.” Nizar stares at him. “While you also need to make it clear that you consider Harry Potter an enemy.”

Severus nods. “Yes,” he says flatly.

“Mind magic requires trust in the teacher!” Nizar shouts, incensed. “Has he lost his damned mind?”

“I’m well-aware of what is required, Nizar.” Severus leans back on the sofa, feeling too wrung out by the conclusion of the damned Tournament to be angry. He is—he is _enraged_ —but he can put it aside, a feeling he can utilize later to fuel harsh and terrible magic. “I suppose I’ll need to push the boy to the point where he refuses to come back. At least Albus can then take up those lessons where I will disastrously leave off.”

“Then why is he not teaching Potter in the first place?” Nizar is furious, the angriest Severus has ever seen him.

“I don’t know. Perhaps Albus is planning for things to proceed in exactly that fashion.”

Nizar swears in one unbroken streak of mingled English and Spanish. “Severus. Without trust, you won’t just be frustrating both yourself and that child. You’ll be torturing him!”

Severus flinches. “Is that why you’re angry?”

“Yes, but not at you!” Nizar slams his fist into the stone wall of his own sitting room. “Ow.”

“That was foolish,” Severus observes.

“I’m a portrait. I can’t actually break myself.” Nizar sits down and scowls. “None of this is a good idea.”

“I’m aware of that, too.”

Severus is awoken after midnight on the thirty-first of July by a panicked Hogwarts house-elf. Severus rubs his face and tells the elf to go inform Albus Dumbledore that he’ll be along in a moment. He needs to choke down a Pepper-up potion to do it, but he’s in the man’s office in less than five minutes. He hasn’t slept well since the Dark Lord’s return, for varying reasons.

“Well? Did Potter escape onto the Knight Bus and go into London on his own again?” Severus asks caustically.

Albus is staring at one of the delicate instruments on his desk. “No,” he says in a hushed, shocked voice. “Harry Potter has vanished.”

Severus draws up short. Not a time for sarcasm or any sort, then. “He’s _what_?”

“Vanished,” Albus repeats, a rare look of complete bewilderment on his face. “He did not die. He did not physically depart from Number Four Privet Drive. Before midnight, he was there. Fifteen minutes after midnight, he was not.”

“Then someone Apparated into the house and kidnapped your wizarding savior.” Severus is grinding his teeth against the urge to scream in thwarted rage. He predicted this very possibility and was ignored. He doesn’t know how he is going to rescue the brat while maintaining his role as a spy. He might have to sacrifice that position, and without the Dark Lord’s defeat a looming certainty, it’s far too soon.

There is also the fact that Voldemort would use the Dark Mark to kill him the moment he realized Severus had betrayed him, but Severus isn’t going to worry about that potential until they find Potter.

“This was not an Apparition, though I am double-checking.” Albus touches his wand to the device, which takes on a violet glow that Severus has never before seen. “He was magically removed from the house, yes. You are correct on that front, Severus…but he is nowhere else in this world.”

“That’s impossible,” Severus says flatly. Even if someone stuffed Potter into a faulty Vanishing Cabinet, a living wizard still exists _somewhere_.

Albus’s expression remains grave. “Something is indeed amiss. I’m sending members of the Order to the house to explore. I will be accompanying them. Please keep an eye on the school. If Voldemort calls for your presence, awaken Minerva, make certain she knows of the situation, and then attend to him. If he has somehow acquired Harry…”

“I will do what is needed,” Severus reminds him, irritated by the unnecessary delay. “You know this.”

Albus nods once. “I do,” he says, and departs.

The investigation reveals only that a wizard of indeterminate origins had been inside Potter’s bedroom after midnight. Some sort of spell was performed, one which no one among those investigators can identify. Albus is certain Potter was not killed, but they do not know where Potter has gone, or if he will be returned.

Voldemort does not have Potter; he is enraged that his prize has been so well-hidden. He mentions some sort of connection, which chills Severus’s blood, but the Dark Lord also mentions that the mysterious connection is not _working_. Severus can’t decide if that’s reassuring or not.

They know only this with certainty: Potter is missing, as is his wand, that damnable cloak, and his owl.

“A willing removal, then?” Severus asks. Minerva is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, as if Potter is dead already. “Was it Sirius Black, losing his patience with the situation and claiming his legal position as Potter’s guardian?”

“Sirius was not involved. He is exceptionally distraught. I know that you detest him, but Sirius once again feels as if he failed in his duty, Severus, even though it was I who kept him from performing it.” Albus has an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation. “I quite honestly do not know what to tell anyone.”

“The truth. Potter is missing,” Severus says, trying not to roll his eyes at the need to point out the obvious. “You don’t know if he’s dead. Missing saviors inspire hope; dead saviors do not encourage it at all.”

Minerva sniffs again and glances at Severus, her expression firming into hard resolve. “Quite right. Harry could turn up tomorrow, Albus.”

Despite the faint stir of optimism Severus feels at her words, Potter does not turn up in the morning. Or the next day. Or the next week.

Severus waits until the end of August before he returns to the Slytherin Common Room for the first time since mid-July, a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand. He sits down on the sofa before the fire, staring at the flames until Nizar finally coughs to gain his attention.

“Why so morose? I mean, you’ve certainly mastered the expression in the past few years, but this seems worse than usual.”

“I’ve failed,” Severus whispers. “I broke my promise.”

“Failed?” Nizar comes closer until he’s all but leaning out of the portrait frame to stare down at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Potter vanished on the thirty-first in a manner that not even Albus can discern. There has been no trace of him since. The Dark Lord does not have him. He’s too angry, and he would not have been able to resist the opportunity to brag, besides. Instead, he believes Albus has hidden Potter from him, which keeps the Voldemort from completing his dearest wish—finishing what he began in 1981.”

“Vanished is not dead,” Nizar says. “I have no idea what kind of magic could be doing as you’ve said, though.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be a well-educated teacher of Hogwarts?” Severus asks, bitterly amused.

“Yes, but my portrait was painted in 1017. I’m nine hundred seventy-eight years old. I don’t remember things the way I should, Severus. I think I’ve forgotten most of the 1700s.” Nizar considers that for a moment. “I don’t think I really missed much, to be honest.”

“I just…” Severus finishes the drink, wishing for another and glad he didn’t bring the bottle. He needs to be able to think, not be in the middle of committing atrocities against his liver. “I have no idea what to do.”

“Your job,” Nizar suggests.

Severus glances up at the portrait, with his familiar Spanish complexion, odd hazel eyes, and messy brown hair. “That’s all?”

“Unless you can pull miracles out of your own arse? Yes,” Nizar says, and Severus forces back a smile. “That aside…Severus, why rely on one magician’s talents? You do not have access to whatever form of detection the Headmaster is using, but you do have your own skills. You might find something he could never see, either because it’s too subtle or too bloody obvious.”

It’s something he’s considered doing, but it seemed wiser to let others take the lead. “And if Voldemort discovers I’m doing so?”

“Doesn’t Voldemort want this child found?” Nizar asks. The smile on his face isn’t friendly at all. “You’re merely doing what any Death Eater should be doing on behalf of the Lord Voldemort, are you not?”

Severus gives in and smiles. “Nizar, sometimes you are vaguely terrifying.”

Nizar shrugs. “I’m a Slytherin. It’s a familial trait, Severus.”

“It is really?”

“There was no ‘vaguely’ about how terrifying our sister was. Estefania was a politician.”

“I’m convinced,” Severus says. “Magic just seems to make politicians that much more dangerous.”

Nizar grins at him. “Estefania wasn’t magical. Besides,” he continues, leaning back so perspective shifts, revealing a man bent over to scoop a tiny basilisk off of a chair’s seat, “you don’t need magic to be cunning.”

Severus lifts an eyebrow. “You know…you’re right.”

“Better,” Nizar announces, smiling down at Kanza. “Much better than moping, Severus.”

“Fuck you,” Severus retorts in annoyance, but Nizar only laughs.

Severus does indeed have his own talents, and not all of them were honed by magic. He explores Muggle areas of Greater London, Surrey, Kent, Hertford, Reading, and Essex. With the term begun, it means the only time he can spare is on certain late evenings and weekend nights, but he doesn’t sleep easily, regardless. The burn of breaking his oath to protect Lily’s child bites at Severus, chases him into sleep, wakes him in the middle of the night, and befouls his temper even more during the day. No matter if he remained in Hogwarts or not, Severus would be roaming.

He doesn’t need magic to listen and observe. The benefit to growing up in a pit like Cokeworth is that he can talk to otherwise suspicious men and women in judged lower-class neighborhoods and easily prove that he belongs, though it takes a charm on his clothes that causes the viewer to forget what he was wearing. Perhaps it’s a bit of a cheat, but he feels no need to resume wearing childhood dinge.

He has a result, of a sort, by mid-October. Whether or not it’s useful for finding Potter, he has no idea, but he has concrete rumor of an Underground that isn’t the one populated by trains and commuters.

“But what is it _for_?” Severus is all but digging his heels in to hang onto the Cokeworth dredges of an accent to finish the conversation. This particular dockworker is due to return to their shift.

“Don’ rightly know,” the man says, throwing a lit cigarette into the Thames where it meets the ocean—and Muggles still wonder why the river is so polluted. Rubbish has been going into European waters since ancient people decided that splashing sounds were enticing.

“Do know it’s supposed to be damned quiet. Only reason I heard tell o’ it was a cousin o’ mine, he went an’ helped one of ’em out one night a few years back. Poor fellow was hurt fierce, but couldn't go to hospital. My cousin asked ’im if it was one o’ those Guy Fawkes things. The bloke says no, Fawkes at least just wanted to stick with Parliament. Sorta anti-Fawkes folk, he says.”

“Anti-Fawkes,” Severus repeats. That feels like a deliberate choice, like a _joke_. “Thanks.”

“No problem, mate. Remember, it’s hush!” the man says, and jumps down from the docks to land on the decking of the barge tied below.

“Right.” Severus Apparates back to London when he has a safe, dark place to do so, but he isn’t ready to go back to Hogwarts yet. He’ll likely regret the decision in the morning, but October makes him tetchy and out-of-sorts under normal circumstances.

He lets his feet carry him along Charing Cross Road, but ignores the pub and the entrance to the alley.  Leicester Square Station isn’t far, and the irony of seeking out the Underground after hearing of an Underground is amusing. Until this summer, he hadn’t been in the tube in years, and there is one last train running before the overnight shutdown.

The slow pace of the escalators always irritates him, but walking down them at his normal speed does make for swift arrival on the lower platforms. He listens to silence settle in around him, not surprised to find himself alone in this area of the station.

Mostly alone. Severus feels war-honed instincts prickle with unease, and raises his arm to have his hand resting on his wand sleeve. It’s gone from nighttime silence to the too-still quiet of a cast charm.

The dry-sounding click of moving machinery at his back has him pausing in mid-motion. “If you’re looking for a mugging victim, you are definitely pointing that in the wrong direction.”

“Nah, not lookin’ to mug anyone,” a male voice says. “Would like it if you didn’t move, though.”

“Of course.” Severus gnashes his teeth and then resolutely stares straight ahead. If he hears any further hint of that weapon’s trigger movement, he is Apparating, and damn the Statute. He’d rather live, thank you.

“Heard you was lookin’ for an Underground.”

“How convenient. We’re standing in one,” Severus replies with grating dryness.

“Oh, this would be of a different sort. Bit of the anti-Fawkes type.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “Your accent is _atrocious_. Please either shoot me or get to the point.”

“Sorry, mate. I was born high an’ went to slum it, so sometimes I slip to one side or another. We were just wantin’ to know why you were looking for a particular lightning bolt.”

“Because said ‘lightning bolt’ is missing. That is one does when children go missing—you _search_ ,” Severus replies, and hopes there is enough scathing acid in his voice for a wizard holding a gun to choke upon.

“Fair ’nuff. Who are you lookin’ for that lightning bolt _for_?”

Severus frowns. “Myself.”

“Really now?”

“Yes, really,” he retorts. “There are two very different men who would tell you two very different tales, but ultimately, I’m searching to suit my own purposes, not theirs.”

“Hate to break it t’ya, then, but you’re lookin’ in the wrong direction.” To Severus’s surprise, he is picking up a note of genuine regret in his assailant’s voice. “He’s not with us, mate.”

“But you know where he is,” Severus guesses.

“Maybe. I can tell ya this much for free—he’s safer than both of us,” the other wizard says, followed by the muted crack of Disapparition.

Severus turns around, scowling at the empty platform. “Define _safe_ ,” he mutters.

To his surprise, he does get an answer, even if he can’t track the source. “Not under anyone’s thumb but his own. You’re a man what can appreciate that, aren’t you?”

Severus decides that he has had enough of mysterious proclamations and trains. He Apparates back to Hogwarts after confirming that the platform remains empty; a simple spell disrupts the security monitor in the station long enough for him to depart.

The Common Room is still hosting one lone student. Miss Adele Greenwood is bent over an entire pile of homework, and looks to be trying to combine six different essays into one. “Miss Greenwood,” he says, which makes her squeak in surprise. “Go downstairs to bed, Miss Greenwood.”

Aside from the initial shock his sudden, silent appearances often creates, his Slytherins are used to Severus’s ways. “But this is due tomorrow!” she wails. “I have to be able to turn it in, Professor!”

“If you plant your face upon this table, you’ll be turning in nothing, regardless. Go to bed. Wake up on time and stop by my office for a restorative before breakfast.”

Severus waits for Miss Greenwood to finally agree, shove the entire pile into her book bag, and head for the girl’s dormitory stairwell. “Has she been here all night?”

“You’d think by now the lot of them would know that I won’t help them cheat. No, I will not write your history essay for you!” Nizar sounds amused. “I might mock them for what they get wrong, though.”

“I often wonder if your students wanted you dead,” Severus says, and then relates the useful aspects of the evening.

“What the fuck is a pistol?”

“You are direly undereducated in some truly horrifying respects,” Severus replies, and then considers it. “I don’t think I ever selected a book that mentioned anything other than rifles, though.”

“Ah. Firearms.” Nizar sits down in his chair, resting his booted feet on his own wall. “Safe, but under no one’s thumb?”

“That is what was said, yes.”

“I’m actually inclined to believe them,” Nizar says. “Otherwise they would simply have attempted to murder you and then left your body on the tracks.”

“I do appreciate that you said ‘attempted’ instead of implying they would be successful.” Severus paces along the stones before the fireplace. “I am not sure what to do otherwise, though.”

“You’ve run into a group that doesn’t trust Dumbledore, but it’s also painfully obvious that they have no love for Voldemort.”

Severus nods in agreement. “The pistol.” No follower of the Dark Lord, no matter how secret, would sully their hands with a Muggle device. “Then what?”

“I don’t know, but you have something you didn’t before.” When Severus turns to him in surprise, Nizar is looking at him, his head tilted to one side. “You have confirmation that you have not failed that child. At the moment, what else is there?”

“I would prefer to know of his safety in truth,” Severus murmurs.

“Someone has tried to kill that child since he started school. Wherever he is, it’s probably safer than Hogwarts,” Nizar points out dryly.


	4. Hallowe'en 1995

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know that tickle on the back of your tongue, like you know the word you’re reaching for, but it refuses to come out?”

Severus doesn’t return to the Common Room again until late Sunday night the last week of October. He chastises two seventh-years about having some bloody discretion, sends Miss Greenwood to bed _again_ , and waits until he’s certain the room is going to remain empty before he sits down in front of the fireplace. “I hate this time of year.”

“Three days, and it’ll be over and done with.”

Severus looks up and then starts back in surprise. “Nizar, what the hell are you doing?”

Nizar shrugs while still standing place…which is on his own ceiling. His green robes are lying in a pile of fabric on the portrait’s floor. He’s wearing a black shirt that seems too long, black trousers of some indeterminate length, and dark brown boots that rise to the knee. Nizar’s hair is hanging in long strands, so at least he didn’t somehow invert his portrait’s gravity.

“I’ve literally never seen you without that robe,” Severus says.

“People expect dignity and proper appearances. I don’t sleep in it; that would be uncomfortable.”

Severus lifts an eyebrow. “You still haven’t explained why you’re upside down.”

“I wanted a change of perspective.” Nizar tilts his head so he can peer down at the floor in his painting. “Didn’t help much.”

“I’m going to assume that the students who were in this room when you decided upon your perspective shift were not very observant,” Severus says. “Help with what?”

“I don’t know.” Nizar frowns. “Things just haven’t seemed right for the last several days.”

“I have no idea what feels proper for a portrait, Nizar.”

“I can’t be any more specific than that because I’ve not come up with anything else.” Nizar bends down long enough to push off with his feet, flipping himself in midair before he lands on the floor, right side up again.

Severus bites back an amused smile. “I’ve also never seen you that active.”

“Active? I suppose so.” Nizar picks up his robe, but he doesn’t put it on. “This side of the portrait isn’t flat, Severus. It’s three-dimensional.”

Severus has always suspected as much. “Where do those doorways go?”

Nizar points to his right. “That goes outside. There is an entire garden in the back. If I walk too far, the painting’s boundaries automatically turn me back around again.” He points to the left. “That’s the rest of the cottage. It’s a very short tour of bedroom, bathing room, brewing room—”

“Brewing? As in alcohol or potions?” Severus asks.

“Potions, though I did manage to turn one of the herbs in the back into an alcoholic beverage. It was easier to cope with the end of the 1100s that way. Stupid Third Crusade.” Nizar smiles. “I’ve a large back garden and all the time in the world. Unfortunately for everyone else, much of what I’m working with is probably extinct.”

“I didn’t know you brewed potions at all. You never said.”

Nizar sits down with his robe bundled up in his lap. “I didn’t think it was that important. It’s not my specialty, but it passes the time. Salazar, now…he was very, very good at it. He could create new things in a single day simply by deciding upon a need and finding the ingredients that would make it happen.”

Severus hisses out a pained breath and clamps his hand down over the Dark Mark. “Dammit.” He wasn’t expecting any sort of Summons, but that was distinctive. “You’ll have to tell me more of that later.”

“Of course.” When he stands up, Nizar is watching him with a somber expression. “Be careful. Failing that, be cunning.”

Severus nods. “I always am.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

On the night of the Hallowe’en Feast, Severus escapes to his office at the first granted opportunity. Tonight is worse than usual, an atmosphere pervading the entire school. Hallowe’en is the night that The Boy Who Lived saved Wizarding Britain, but the Boy Who Lived is now the Boy Who Vanished.

Severus jolts out of unhappy contemplation of 1981 when someone begins pounding on his office door instead of knocking. He gets up and opens it to find Draco Malfoy standing in the passage, panting for breath and white in the face.

“What?” Severus asks. “Has someone expired in the last fifteen minutes?”

Draco gulps audibly and shakes his head. “The painting in the Common Room above the fireplace—it’s glowing, sir!”

Glowing. Severus feels his breath catch.

Fire.

Severus slams his office door shut and races down the corridor, aware of Draco trying to keep pace and failing. He cannot let that painting burn. It’s one of the only true bits of Slytherin history remaining.

That portrait is the only damned friend he has.

Severus pushes open the door for the Common room and arrives to find a cluster of students from fifth- and sixth-year standing around the fireplace. They are all pale, slack-jawed, or both. “What the hell is going on in here?” he demands to know, incensed. The heavy wooden frame for the portrait is hanging in bashed apart lengths, its canvas missing entirely.

“We don’t know,” Parkinson finally says. She looks to be on the verge of fainting, which, despite her dramatics to the contrary, is not her usual response to danger.

He finally shoves his way forward, disgusted by the lack of information, only to halt in surprise when he breaks through the ring of students. There is an unconscious adult lying in a crumpled heap on the fireplace hearthstones.

Severus forces himself to stillness even as recognition filters in. He knows this man, though the details have never been clearer. Dark green robes cut along a style that only graces portraits from the eleventh century, edged by silver thread. Brown, curling hair long enough to brush at the shoulder, highlighted by random hints of sun-bleached blond, is hiding part of the man’s face. A wand of unvarnished cherry wood with blackened glyphs is resting under his right hand, the fingers lax instead of grasping it, which he must have been doing before…before…

“Everyone. Out.” Severus glances around the room when no one obeys. “OUT!” he shouts. “NOW! To your dormitories at once, until I figure out just what has happened here!”

“Sir,” Draco whispers, still white-faced. “No one did—it just started to glow. No one was doing anything.” Then he escapes to his dormitory with Nott, Anderson, Zabini, and Goyle; Parkinson, Greenwood, Bulstrode, and Davis head in the opposite direction.

This is impossible.

Severus’s heartbeat tries to pick up, but he refuses to allow it. He breathes until the rhythm calms back to normal. This is obviously possible, else it wouldn’t have happened. It is highly _improbable_ , a thing that should not be. Canvas is not known for simply coming to life, and canvas is what once was; there are several torn and destroyed bits of the painting around the man gracing his Common Room’s floor. One of them is large enough to reveal what is left of that hinted back garden in the rear of Nizar’s painting.

Severus kneels down, checking for injury even as he tries to magically ascertain what’s happening without drawing his wand. He sees no blood, but he is sensing and seeing the first hints of returning consciousness. “Nizar?”

When the man on the stones blinks his eyes open, their color is that same familiar, washed-out hazel. His hand grips his wand at once, but the very first thing he does is look around instead of moving.

 _Excellent survival instincts_ , Severus thinks in distant approval. “Nizar.”

“What?” Even the voice is a match. Nizar’s eyes flicker down at the stone, then the lit fire in the fireplace, before he notices the wand in his hand. “Why does everything fucking hurt? How the hell am I looking at this fireplace? It was—the angle is wrong—”

“Nizar!” Severus says sharply, interrupting what sounds like genuine panic.

Nizar scrambles up onto his hands and knees, meeting Severus’s eyes. “But—what the fu—I don’t—”

“Nor do I,” Severus replies in a cautious voice. “You’re in the Slytherin Common Room still.”

“I know. I can feel it. I can feel her magic,” Nizar murmurs. “I don’t…Severus?”

Severus clenches his hand into a fist before he dares to reach out and touch Nizar’s shoulder. The green cloth beneath his hands looks like wool, but is too soft and finely woven to be wool alone. That is a robe meant for comfort as much as unpredictable Scottish weather, and must have cost a bloody king’s ransom a thousand years ago. Beneath that cloth is the shape of a human shoulder, along with the warmth of a living body. “Nizar,” he repeats, not knowing what else to say.

No, he does. He has to. The evidence is obvious, but evidence can be falsified. “Nizar: what happens in the book _Through the Looking Glass_?”

“No idea. You wouldn’t read it. You were too offended by the first one.” Nizar reaches out; Severus catches his hand and helps him to stand. Nizar is much shorter than Severus always thought, perhaps five inches below Severus’s six feet.

That venture nearly ends with Nizar dropping right back onto his face until Severus catches him and forces him to sit down on the sofa. “What happened?” Severus asks, sitting down next to the portrait—no, the man. No matter what strange magic has just come into play, Nizar was still the portrait of a man.

“I don’t know.” Nizar is glancing around the room with shock-wide eyes. “I don’t know what happened. I was going to retire for the evening, if only so I could pretend not to listen to certain children discuss things I don’t wish to observe. I felt something…it felt like a pull.” Nizar frowns down at his wand. “I wasn’t holding this. Was I?” Then he places his hand to his throat, touching the familiar glittering green band. “Kanza, dearest, speak to me.”

Severus watches as the black basilisk moves until her nose emerges from Nizar’s hair, tongue flickering out several times before there is about thirty seconds’ worth of hissing.

Nizar closes his eyes in relief. “You’re okay. That’s…how the hell am I sitting in this room with you, Severus? I’m a fucking portrait!”

A wild peal of hysterical laughter tries to well up in his throat, but he pushes it back down. “You are a portrait with a foul mouth,” Severus counters. “I don’t know, and I can’t decide if I should hide you in my office, or take you straight to Albus Dumbledore to find out what’s happened. This is beyond my skill, Nizar.” Severus considers himself a well-read wizard, and he has literally never heard mention of a portrait deciding that life in a canvas was boring enough to vacate it entirely.

“I suspect it’s beyond everyone’s skill,” Nizar says in a faint voice. “I’m sitting in this room again. I’m breathing real air again.”

“What? Why did you say _again_?” Severus asks, not certain he heard that correctly. He could not have.

Nizar blinks a few times. “I—I’ve forgotten already. I don’t know what I said. I’m sorry. I…”

The situation is not improved when Nizar passes out while still sitting upright on the sofa. Severus presses his lips together before he gently nudges Nizar’s shoulder so he’s leaning back against the cushions, and not as likely to drop down to the stones again. Then he finds himself holding utterly still as Kanza emerges from her favorite hiding place and glides over his hand.

“Hello. I’m not hurting him,” Severus tells her in a low voice. Nizar did mention once that she understood English, even if she wasn’t capable of speaking it.

The basilisk responds by scenting his fingers and then turning to gaze at him with her first set of eyelids open. He’d be too dead to contemplate being afraid had it been otherwise. The basilisk’s eyes are brilliant, multi-faceted emerald green, nothing like the faint green smears of paint captured in the portrait.

“I know you will guard him,” Severus says, trying not to feel ridiculous in talking to a portrait of an infant basilisk. “I need to find assistance.” To his surprise, tiny Kanza raises and lowers her head in a deliberate nod before she slithers back into hiding beneath Nizar’s hair.

The Headmaster is still awake, even if he’s wearing a dressing gown that is as gaudy as his daytime robes. Severus suspects the man has grown old enough that sleep is becoming hard to find.

Severus discovers that the first problem he has in speaking with Albus is not the concept of a living portrait—Albus seems to thrive on perpetual oddities—but the idea that the portrait existed in the first place. “How did you not know?” Severus asks in disbelief as he follows Albus down the stairwell.

“Severus, I’ve been in the Slytherin Common Room exactly once, and it was for a teenage indiscretion that involved another seventh-year’s dormitory, not sight-seeing.”

“Please do not grant me any further details,” Severus says. “I looked in the dungeons, but this castle has so many portraits, Albus. It didn’t occur to me that Nizar’s portrait was the only one of its kind!”

“If there were others, they’ve been lost for many, many centuries.” Albus follows him down to the dungeons, staying a polite distance away from the stone wall in order to claim lack of knowledge for the password. When the wall slides back, Severus waits for Albus to step forward so that they enter the room together.

Severus frowns as he realizes that Nizar is awake again. He has also collected a small crowd of Slytherins: Malfoy, Parkinson, Zabini, and Bulstrode.

Albus seems amused. “I thought you’d sent them to bed.”

Severus makes a disappointed sound.  “I did.”

“She’s beautiful,” Malfoy is saying to Nizar, staring down at Nizar’s cupped hands. Severus sees a flash of glittering scales and knows that Kanza has captured their interest.

Nizar glances down for a brief moment before returning his attention to Malfoy. “She says thank you.”

“I’ve never seen a snake that looked like that. What kind is she?” Parkinson asks.

“Probably extinct, him being a thousand-year-old portrait, Pansy,” Zabini says.

“Watch it, I’m nine hundred seventy-eight. Stop pushing me up to a millennium before I’m ready!” Nizar retorts, and then gives the students a smile with a hard edge to it. “Kanza is a basilisk.”

Severus rolls his eyes when all four Slytherins immediately take gigantic steps backwards. Nizar’s smile widens. “What did I tell you idiots in 1993?”

“That basilisks have two sets of eyelids?” Bulstrode ventures.

“Exactly,” Nizar confirms. “Besides, Kanza has been looking at all four of you for the last five minutes, and none of you are dead or Petrified. Are you certain you’re Slytherins?”

Albus smiles when taunting Slytherin pride brings all four young idiots back into closer range. “Sorry. It’s just…Chamber of Secrets, blood on the walls. Some of us are still paranoid,” Zabini says in apology.

“And if any of you idiots had mentioned the word ‘Petrified’ in front of me before, oh, May of that year…” Nizar allows Kanza to climb his sleeve and shoulder so that she can curl around his neck again. “By the way, what were you supposed to do then?”

Malfoy winces. “Tell someone?”

“Oh, yes.” Nizar eyes the four of them with wry tolerance. “Skipped that step, didn’t you? You’re all very fortunate your Head of House likes me, else he would have killed the lot of you for being so stupid.”

Severus crosses his arms. “Indeed.” Watching teenagers flinch with guilt will probably never cease to be entertaining. “Did I not inform all of you to retire for the evening?”

“Yes, sir, but it’s not every day a canvas falls off the wall as a person,” Parkinson dares. Severus just stares at them, waiting, until Zabini sighs. “Come on, then.”

Severus waits until they’re gone. “Are you going to continue your predilection for the wearing of basilisks outside the bounds of a painting?”

“Well, some people have odd predilections for wearing entire constellations on their person,” Nizar replies, giving Albus’s dressing gown a look of baffled offence.

“And the serpent emerged from the portrait, just as yourself and your wand did,” Albus muses. “Your pardon; I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

“Knew your name from about, oh—ninety-seven years ago,” Nizar says, squinting as Albus comes closer. “That was not subtle, by the way. You nearly got caught the next morning.”

“And if I needed confirmation of your portrait-hood and location at the time in question, I have it now.” Albus peers up at the shattered hardwood frame. The hex-damaged nameplate is lying on the floor, a glimmer of silver and reflected firelight. “I don’t suppose you know how to explain this.”

Nizar scowls. “Actually, it happens every night that I attempt to go to bed. This is just the first night anyone caught the event after the fact.”

Albus turns around in surprise. “There is no call for rudeness.”

“You’re right. There’s no call for it at all,” Nizar retorts. “Let’s just perform the act in reverse, shove your entire self into a portrait frame, and see how you feel about it afterwards.”

“All right, perhaps there is a bit of a call for it,” Albus admits. “Or are you hoping to incite a particular response?”

“I’m actually just hoping that you will Transfigure that outfit into something less blinding.” Nizar is actually wincing away from Albus’s dressing gown. “I see more colors than the average person. Please, I do not want my first day of existence to begin with a migraine.”

“Ah. Easily done.” Albus mutes his gown with a single tap of his wand. The predominant color becomes a mediocre dusk violet instead of something approaching eye-bleeding magenta. “Is that an improvement?”

“I no longer wish to dig my eyeballs out of my skull, so yes.”

Albus steps back. “Then perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere. There are children who are still peering around corners.”

“Half of them don’t go to bed until after midnight, anyway.” Nizar bends down to pick up the strip of silver that bore his name, cupping it in his palm. Not only is it still damaged from the ancient blasting hex, it’s now also twisted out of shape.  “Yes. We should continue to speak elsewhere, I suppose,” he says, and pockets the warped silver nameplate

Severus watches Nizar stand up and is immediately assured that the man isn’t going to fall down again. He’s much steadier on his feet, his chin up, his eyes alert and observant instead of panicked. Instead, Severus is far more concerned by the fact that Albus has absolutely no idea what to make of their new guest. He always plays it off well, but Severus knows Albus is at a loss.

When they leave the dungeons and get back up onto the castle’s ground level, the portraits that line the hall are following them, pointing at Nizar and whispering. “You seem popular,” Severus notes.

“They recognize me, or at least are aware of my existence.” Nizar glances and forth a few times before he gives up and keeps his eyes forward. “Do you know that tickle on the back of your tongue, like you know the word you’re reaching for, but it refuses to come out?”

“Yes.”

Nizar’s hand tightens on his wand until his knuckles whiten. “Everything feels like that right now. All of it.”

“Speaking of knowing…you have the benefit of my name, but I’ve yet to hear you introduce yourself,” Dumbledore says.

“Nizar Hariwalt, Casa de Deslizarse, Teacher of Defence in Hogewáþ. _Very_ Old English,” Nizar explains, when Albus and Severus give him equally curious looks. “The school’s name meant ‘to pursue thought.’ To seek learning.”

“Hogewáþ.” Severus lifts an eyebrow. “That is far more elegant than the Modern English translation.”

Nizar smiles. “Myrddin wasn’t very good at Old English. He preferred the Briton tongues, but he knew they were dying out.”

“I find I’m fond of the current model. You taught a class entitled Defence only?” Albus asks.

Nizar seems irritated by the question. “You can kill someone with a spell that hasn’t been declared Dark. The idea that the Dark Arts of magic are the only ones you need to defend yourself against is ludicrous.”

Severus represses a smile. Why couldn’t they have an instructor for Defence this year who shared that opinion instead of the damned pink toad?

The gargoyle is far more enlightening. “Nizar!” it exclaims, and leans so far off of its post it nearly falls off. Nizar reaches out and scratches the stone gargoyle behind its odd-shaped ears, which causes the statue to elicit a sigh…and for the door to the stairwell to slide open.

“Well!” Albus says, which is an entirely useless comment.

Nizar glances at the gargoyle, then at the open doorway. “Now I don’t want to go up there. I have no idea why I just did that.”

“It’s merely the Headmaster’s office,” Severus murmurs.

“I know.” Nizar glances down once, his eyes flickering over to Severus’s left arm, before he looks up again.

“I must consult our previous Headmasters,” Albus says, pausing in the doorway. “I need to find out if anyone can discern the means of your unusual arrival, or if anyone knows how to put you back.”

“Back. Of course.” There is a disturbed flicker in Nizar’s eyes. “That would be the thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

That is when Severus realizes that the idea of somehow turning Nizar Slytherin back into a portrait is… it’s not a desirable outcome. He even mentions such to Albus on their way up the stairs. “We have a near-undead bastard parading around Britain, claiming to be descended from the Slytherin line, and in case you’ve forgotten, we’re lacking a wizarding savior,” Severus reminds him. “We might actually need this man, portrait or not.”

“I’d help you kill Voldemort just for what he did to Kanza’s brother,” Nizar offers.

“Brother.” Albus pauses in the midst of opening one of the double doors. “Salazar’s basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets was sibling to your own?”

“Jalaf. Yes.”

Albus frowns. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the return of a basilisk to Hogwarts.”

Nizar touches the glittering green-on-black band wrapped around his throat. “Basilisks are protectors, Headmaster. If Salazar left Jalaf here, then he was performing that role, along with acts of pest control—or did you never notice that Hogwarts had no problems with rats and mice? Even spiders were rare intruders. For Jalaf to have acted the way he did, Riddle did two things to him.”

“What are those things?” Albus asks.

Severus doesn’t think he’s mistaking the grief lacing Nizar’s answer. “Drove him mad, to begin with. Given that Jalaf was apparently Petrifying everything he encountered, Riddle probably removed both sets of Jalaf’s eyelids. Jalaf would have been slowly starving to death, Albus Dumbledore. A basilisk cannot eat Petrified food, no matter how large they are.”

Albus grants Nizar a slow nod. “Then young Mister Potter’s slaying of the basilisk was a mercy as well as a necessity.”

“Given how you lot have vilified Parselmouths, it isn’t as if you would have had much assistance to discover otherwise,” Nizar replies.

Albus opens the door and leads the way into his office. “That is not a mindset I share.”

“Which is what everyone says until the first time you hiss in front of them,” Nizar mutters, but follows Albus when Severus gestures for Nizar to precede him.

Severus shuts the door as Albus greets the portraits of the school’s previous Headmasters and Headmistresses. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”  Many of the lower level portraits wake up in response, most of them staring at Nizar in polite curiosity as the man turns in a circle to take in all of the available faces.

Phineas Nigellus Black is the first to react to the sight of Nizar. “As I bloody well sit in this stupid blasted portrait! Nizar!”

Nizar turns around and looks up at Phineas. “Oh! I haven’t seen you since…1925?”

“Decided to shuffle off with the mortal coil that year,” Phineas admits with a haughty sniff.

“Well, that was stupid,” Nizar replies. Severus finds himself pressing his lips together; he hasn’t seen Phineas rendered so effectively speechless in a long time.

“ _Nizar_?”

They all look up when they hear the sound of a portrait shoving its way through the frames of other portraits to make its way down the tower. Then an oversized ginger is shoving Phineas off to one side to stare down at them.

“Nizar! It _is_ you!” Godric Gryffindor roars.

Nizar smiles. “Godric! You look lively. Did you make the artist paint your portrait without grey hair so you wouldn’t have to contend with your own vanity?”

“Vanity? Pah,” Godric says. “It’s so good to see you awakened!”

“Awake—what?” Nizar asks, staring up at Godric. “What do you mean, _awake_?”

Godric ignores Nizar’s question. “Wait, wait, wait—come on, then! Hurry it up, the rest of you!”

Rowena Ravenclaw enters the portrait frame next, putting her hand on Phineas’s hat to move him out of the way. “Nizar! Hello, dearest!”

“Rowena,” Nizar greets her, though he’s starting to frown. Then Helga Hufflepuff joins them a moment later. Phineas is making undignified noises and yelling for the others to get the hell out of his portrait. “Helga,” Nizar says, and then points at the portraits. “This is the 1015 batch. Not the later set.”

That would explain why the Founders are younger than Severus can ever recall seeing, much closer to the onset of wizarding middle age instead of on the verge of exchanging it for dotage. He looks at Albus, who nods. “They are not in a common area of the castle, but as to where these portraits dwell aside from Godric’s place in the Tower, I do not know.”

“Godric was fifty-two at the time. Helga was forty-seven. Rowena was…was…” Nizar’s brow furrows. “Sixty-one?”

“Correct, dearest,” Rowena replies. She looks far younger, and there isn’t a hint of silver in her black hair.

“MOVE, YOU INGRATE!” another portrait shouts. Phineas swears aloud before he jumps into the next portrait. He ends up sharing space with Elizabeth Burke, who appears as if she’d prefer to shove him right back out again.

The portrait who joins the Founders shares Nizar’s bronze skin and hazel eyes, though his are more green-dominant than grey. He has curling black hair just touched by threads of silver, and bears a wide smile on his face. “There’s my little brother. Not aged a day at all.”

“Salazar,” Nizar whispers.

Severus is trying to comprehend what he is looking at. It is very hard to match that expressive face to the dour, washed-out grey of the elder Salazar Slytherin and his perpetual scowl. “I’ve literally never seen a portrait of Salazar Slytherin that looks so young.”

“1015. He would have been forty-five,” Nizar says. “Sal, I’m a portrait. We don’t fucking age!”

Salazar rears back in surprise and then glares at Rowena. “I told you that there may be side effects, Salazar.”

“Which we did our best to mitigate!” Salazar shouts back.

Helga shakes her head. “One can only do so much to mitigate the cost of literal centuries.”

“Nearly a millennium, in fact,” Godric adds.

Nizar scowls up at the Founders. “I will find your individual portraits and set every last one of them on fire if one of you does not begin to explain just _what is going on_!”

“I would like to second that request, but without the portrait-burning,” Albus says in a calm voice.

“Fuck you,” Nizar says, glaring at Albus. “They’re my family, and I will set them on fire all I like!”

Severus rarely regrets not owning a camera, but the expression on Albus’s face in that moment is rare and to be cherished. “Please do not destroy the irreplaceable magical artefacts, no matter how annoying they are,” he says, if only to appease Albus.

Nizar directs his glare at Severus for a moment. “Fine.” He looks up at the Founders again. “Why did I fall out of a portrait frame this evening?”

“Because it is 1995,” Salazar says. If someone had told Severus yesterday that Salazar Slytherin could sound gentle, he wouldn’t have believed them.

Nizar raises an eyebrow. “Which means what, exactly? Stop being so bloody cryptic!”

The four Founders trade glances. “Oh, dear. We didn’t expect you to lose _that_ much,” Helga says.

Severus has no idea what he’s feeling. If it’s elation, then it’s entirely foreign. “He isn’t a portrait at all, is he?”

Salazar gives him a look of beaming pride. “No, Head of my House. Nizar is my brother in truth.”

“You…you shoved me into a portrait?” Nizar looks shell-shocked. “You shoved me into a portrait long enough for me to _forget_ I wasn’t a portrait?”

Rowena’s voice is stone dry. “Apparently so.”

“Not just that, though.” Nizar squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “1017. That’s the portrait’s painted date, I remember that. It was late, wasn’t it? But that’s not—how old am I?”

Three of the four look supremely discomfited by the question. Godric sighs. “That portrait was used as a base for the magic, and yes, you are correct that it was painted in 1017. You, however, were forty-two years of age when the spell was performed.”

Nizar puts his hands in his hair and makes a frustrated noise. “Great. _What_ spell?”

“One meant to safeguard our future.” Salazar turns his attention to Albus. “Headmaster. I was a Seer, one who could scry for the future without fail. Because of this, we all knew that one day, great danger would come to these isles, and that danger would arise from my own bloodline. After 1039 I left Hogwarts, undertaking my own means of attempting to be of assistance, but I know nothing else; my portrait hasn’t been updated since that year.”

“We knew about Tom Riddle in 1017?” Nizar sighs. “I’ll be adding that to the list of things I do not remember, then.”

“We four Founders were tied to the magic of this school,” Rowena says. “Though Salazar would have preferred otherwise, it could not be his essence, his true self, locked away inside an innocent bit of canvas by way of an extremely complicated Preservation Charm, among other bits of magic.”

“No one had ever done such a thing before. It’s quite reasonable to assume that no one has done it since that time,” Helga tells them. “We knew there might be side effects, but I am relieved that aside from a few gaps in his memory, Nizar came through appearing as he should, his personality and magic intact.”

“Is it intact?” Salazar asks in concern. “Have you tested it, Nizar?”

“Well, that almost caused my heart to stop. Thanks ever so much for that!” Nizar holds out his wand and points it at an empty teacup sitting on an abandoned tea tray. The cup is Transfigured into a flask with a glass stopper that looks ancient.

“Oh, please don’t return that to being a teacup,” Albus says at once. “That’s quite lovely! Can I keep it?”

Severus tries not to roll his eyes. Bloody Magpie for a Headmaster.

Nizar treats him to an odd look. “It was your teacup in the first place.” Then he looks up at Salazar and hisses at him. Salazar smiles and replies in Parseltongue. Severus doesn’t know if the man was calling for her specifically, but the hissing attracts the attention of Kanza, who emerges from Nizar’s hair and rears up to stare at the portrait.

“Ah, there’s the tiny beauty.” Salazar’s expression saddens. “I’m glad you still live.”

Helga puts her arm over Salazar’s shoulders; Rowena is the one who speaks next. “Since we knew of the grave danger to students of our school, even though it was many years hence, we took steps to…if not end it entirely, then at least to provide the right sort of assistance. Nizar volunteered to wait out the centuries in order to offer that assistance when the time came.”

Nizar abruptly sits down on the floor. “Oh, good. I am a particularly stupid living being.”

“No, brother,” Salazar says. “Not stupid, nor foolish. Cunning enough to survive.”

Godric nods. “Daring enough to brave long, interminable years.”

“Wise enough to know when to speak, and when to be silent,” Rowena says.

Helga smiles. “Stubborn enough to come through with all of yourself intact, even if your memories are more scattered than any would prefer.”

Nizar seems to be too overwhelmed to speak, so Severus does so instead. “I know from Nizar that he was one of the first of the teachers in this school aside from yourselves. Other than that, we know almost nothing. I believe Nizar would appreciate hearing what you recall.”

“Nizar was also first among our students, thanks to Salazar,” Helga says, beaming. “He was brilliant, Professor Snape. He learned quickly and well, and was literally the first of our students to turn around to teach another simply because he saw there was need. By the time we had far more students than the mere handful we were accustomed to, Nizar was a recognized instructor at age seventeen.”

“Twenty-five years of teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Albus murmurs.

Nizar scowls. “Defence. Not Defence against one particular aspect of magic. Just Defence!”

“He did not just teach Defence, though it was his primary specialty. He was very good at it. Very creative in potions, though he still doesn’t believe me.” Salazar glares down at Nizar, who shrugs. “See?”

Godric looks pleased. “He also taught our Metamorphmagi.”

Severus nearly swallows his own tongue. “That can be _taught_?” Dear God, they do not need an entire island full of Metamorphmagi!

“Of course it can.” Rowena grants Severus a smile that is borderline smirk. “It should never have been dropped as an available specialty, though it and the Animagi classes were reserved only for the most advanced Transfiguration students.”

Nizar raises both eyebrows. “I don’t think I remember how to do that.”

“It will come back,” Helga says. “If the magic behaves as it should, you will begin to remember.”

“It’s been a long time since you’ve had a true physical form, Nizar. Have patience with yourself,” Rowena advises him.

“Right.” Nizar glances down at his wand before he returns his attention to Salazar. “Voldemort. Is he my fault, or yours?”

“He is untold generations below us. It’s hardly about blame…but no, he is not your fault. He is directly of my line.” Salazar looks unimpressed. “Arrogant little upstart. I’d step on him if I were capable of it.”

“Then I suppose I will be assisting with making him dead,” Nizar says in resignation. “Or I’ll kill him myself so a fifteen-year-old isn’t being pushed into doing so.”

“It will not be so easy as that,” Albus says. “Voldemort has been struck directly with the Killing Curse, and it had no effect.”

Severus feels a muscle beneath his eye twitch, but he doesn’t react or respond. He hadn’t known that before this moment, and that is irritating.

Nizar touches the basilisk at his throat. “Bearing an immunity to the Killing Curse doesn’t mean he’s immune to everything.”

If killing Voldemort does become the simple task of letting him stare into an infant basilisk’s eyes, Severus will consider that justice and be pleased with the results.


	5. Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I thought we were exchanging nonsensical statements."

Nizar is trying to decide if he should hate existence, and if so, to what degree. He wasn’t sure what to expect from this meeting, but “not actually a portrait” had never made the list of possibilities. He can’t remember where he was born, or anything of his childhood. He recalls bits of events from Hogwarts during his years of teaching, of friends and family. He has scattered memories from the portrait until the 1800s, when his recollection becomes more or less linear.

He also isn’t sure what to make of Albus Dumbledore. The current Headmaster strikes Nizar as a chess player, one who knows he has to win the game and isn’t above sacrificing something important to achieve that goal. Nizar doesn’t necessarily disagree with the need for sacrifice, but he’d prefer to avoid it, especially if there are better or more entertaining solutions at hand.

“I suppose we shall have to find you a place to reside within the castle,” Dumbledore is saying. “Of course, this is the worst possible time for such an interesting addition.”

Nizar glances at Severus. “Is this the Ministry nonsense you were complaining about last month?”

Severus nods. “Our current Defence Against the Dark Arts Instructor really…isn’t.”

Nizar knows Severus has a much stronger opinion on the matter, but for some reason, isn’t voicing it. He is either leery of Dumbledore, as well, or has already said as much and feels no need to repeat himself.

“Dolores Umbridge holds the post at the moment,” Dumbledore explains. “She is Ministry oversight from the current Minister for Magic, who refuses to believe Voldemort has returned, and that he is a threat. Dolores is looking for excuses for Minister Fudge to be able to bring me up on charges, which is the only way the Ministry can directly interfere with Hogwarts.”

“That is the sort of cowardice that will get people killed.” Nizar is not impressed with their Minister’s logic. “If we locate Voldemort, can we perhaps just give him this Minister Fudge?”

“No, Severus,” Dumbledore says when he notices that Severus is smiling at the idea. Well; score one to Nizar, then. He hasn’t seen Severus look that pleased by anything in ages.

“Do you know her?” Severus asks.

“Dolores? Oh, yes. She had a love affair with pink while everyone else was trying to have a love affair with other people’s body parts. She also had the lovely habit of only speaking to people she thought could raise her station in life,” Nizar replies. “That aside, unless things have changed a lot in the past year, the Ministry isn’t supposed to have the authority to name a teacher to a post in this school.”

Dumbledore nods. “Normally, that is true, but we did not have anyone who could take the post this year. Otherwise, I would most certainly have avoided it.”

“Ah.” Nizar thinks about it for a few seconds before he realizes that yes, he is going to be fool enough to volunteer. “You might not have had one before, but you do now.”

“You were also a portrait an hour ago,” Severus reminds him dryly.

“Yes, there is that. How would we explain you?” Dumbledore asks.

“Explain what? Tell people the truth! It isn’t as if you don’t have four Founders—” Nizar jerks his thumb back up over his shoulder at the portrait where Godric, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga are still lurking. “—who can confirm the story to anyone who asks.”

Dumbledore eyes the Founders. “A truth not easily believed.”

“Now you sound like you’re seeking convenient excuses,” Nizar says in a flat voice. “Do you want to be rid of the Ministry toady or not? You need a Defence instructor. I am currently homeless and possibly penniless. I have no other way yet to establish myself in this world aside from being exactly who I am.” _Even if I can’t remember large parts of my life._ “And you’re overlooking an advantage.”

“An advantage?” Dumbledore meets his eyes.

Nizar averts his gaze. “In my day, what you just attempted was a dueling offence. Do it again, and you will discover exactly _why_ I was Hogwarts’ Defence instructor.”

“Ah. A practicing Occlumens?” Dumbledore asks in what appears to be genuine curiosity. Nizar wonders how often someone threatens to kill this man, given that he refuses to take the threat seriously.

“They’re called separate things now? We just called them manners,” Nizar says crossly.

Severus interrupts Nizar’s desire to turn someone rude into a pile of ash. “You wish to terrify Voldemort.”

“The evidence of one of his ancestors returned, angry and wanting him dead? Terrified would hopefully be one result,” Nizar says, trying to be civil. “The other possibility is that the idea drives him to seek me out, wanting affirmation that he’s holding true to Salazar’s ways…and wanting familial acceptance.”

“What makes you think the latter?” At least Dumbledore isn’t trying to pry into his thoughts any longer. As long as that incident doesn’t repeat itself, the school won’t need a new Headmaster.

“That’s what Tom Marvolo Riddle wanted in 1938. He might not have acknowledged me beyond a single rude comment, but I _listen_. Riddle’s plans were already a threat to others, but the Head of Slytherin House at the time ignored me…as did the next two, actually. It’s very hard to warn people of danger if you’ve been stuffed into a corner to be forgotten.”

“A bloody _corner_?” Salazar sounds angry and upset. “Your portrait was supposed to remain above the fireplace!”

“That would explain the Preservation Charm’s failure with his memories,” Helga muses as Nizar turns around. “When was it moved?”

Nizar shakes his head. “Helga, I’ve no idea. I don’t even remember it happening.”

“Someone had to have moved it back,” Rowena says.

“I did.” Severus merely looks at the Founders when they stare at him. “I didn’t know it was the portrait’s original home. I simply felt it was a more suitable location.”

“You _are_ in the records as Defence teacher for Hogwarts, one who never officially retired from the post, I might add, and one who is also not listed as dying. I admit I had always been curious about that lack of detail.” Nizar returns his attention to Dumbledore. “You would truly do this? I believe it would save us a great deal of trouble in regards to Dolores Umbridge’s presence, but it would endanger you. As you said, regardless of which Voldemort wants, you will certainly attract his attention.”

“If that happens, I can make Voldemort dead that much faster.” Nizar hides a yawn in his sleeve. “However, it’s nearing midnight on Hallowe’en, and believe it or not? I really had planned on _sleeping_ tonight. Can we handle the details of my reinstatement tomorrow?”

He also needs a place to sleep. Maybe…maybe he had one? Has one?

Dammit, he can’t remember that, either.

Severus is right about his language, too. Was he like this before, or did he develop the vocabulary in direct response to living amongst teenagers for almost ten centuries?

“For tonight, at least, there is available space in my quarters, and you are directly of Slytherin’s House,” Severus says. “We can meet again in the morning, Albus. I’m certain Minister Fudge will be overjoyed to greet Dolores’s replacement.”

Dumbledore nods. His eyes are still narrowed, though they’re also twinkling in a way that speaks of mischief. Nizar wonders what House the man was in to have created a magician who thinks the way this one does.

“That would be a kindness,” Nizar says to Severus. “One I don’t know how to repay.”

“Kill Voldemort. I’ll consider us even,” Severus replies.

“That is a really imbalanced debt,” Nizar mutters, glaring at Severus when the hint of a smug smile appears on his face.

“Then I will see you both again in the morning,” Dumbledore says. “I will delay the Minister until something more reasonable for that meeting. Ten o’clock, I should think. Good night.”

“Good evening,” Nizar says automatically. He still does not know what to make of that man.

Severus once again has Nizar precede him, so Nizar waits at the top of the stairwell as Severus closes the office door. His eyes are on the stone staircase, which has slowed to a halt and is now moving in the opposite direction. “Do the other stairs do this?” he asks on the way down.

“No. This was likely done for a Headmaster feeling too infirm to bother with a short flight of stairs, and decided the children should have the joy of climbing seven flights of castle stairs, instead.”

“Ah, I see.” Nizar is scowling when he steps off the stairs on the ground floor, though the wall slides back promptly to let him out. “It’s best for the children with crutches, braces, or canes to have the joy of such a thing.”

Severus gives him a sidelong look. “I didn’t say I agreed. I’m just glad that my Slytherins have to deal with the least amount of stairs but for the dormitories.”

“I know. I’ve seen you make it abundantly clear that the upper level dormitories are for those who need them, not for spoiled seventh years.” Nizar pauses long enough to scratch the gargoyle again. “Have you been behaving yourself, Galfridus?”

“Just doin’ my job,” Galfridus replies, his eyes closed in gargoyle bliss.

“That isn’t necessarily the same thing.”

Nizar follows Severus back down the corridor, aware that the portraits are tracking him again. He doesn’t recall who any of those painted people are, but they, for some reason, all seem to know exactly who _he_ is.

Severus’s quarters are warded against intruders in a way that Nizar finds pleasing. Paranoia keeps one alive, especially in dangerous environs. The inside is comfortable, if still obviously an underground dwelling. The rug on the floor is possibly white, but between his eyesight and the torches, it’s difficult to tell. There are numerous bookshelves, which Nizar gazes at like a dying man in the desert falling headfirst into an oasis. A single sofa, the cushions likely a darker red—Severus doesn’t strike him as being all that thrilled by orange. There is a stone fireplace with a mantelpiece that holds only a wooden clock. To Nizar’s right and left at opposite ends of the room are doors, both closed.

“You’re forty-two years old,” Severus says after he shuts the door, reactivating the wards. “You’re older than I am.”

“You’re taller than I am.” Nizar gives him a wide-eyed look of innocence when Severus frowns. “What? I thought we were exchanging nonsensical statements.”

“Nonsensical.” Severus lets out a sigh. “You’re right. Nine hundred seventy-eight.”

“In paint years, maybe,” Nizar says, and Severus chokes mid-breath and ends up stifling laughter.

“Nizar!”

Nizar grins. “Sorry, everything has been truly confusing and I really couldn’t take it any longer. I’m one thousand twenty, Severus, but I wasn’t kidding about your height. You’re taller than I expected.”

“Fair enough.” Severus is still trying not to smile as he glances down at Nizar. “I did have a similar realization earlier. You’re much shorter than I thought.”

“And now I can’t say anything, because everything I’m thinking of is either a horrible euphemism or wildly inappropriate,” Nizar says. He’s shorter than Severus, yes, but he’s also a thousand years removed from the man’s birth. Everyone but Godric had been bloody short in those days except for the Norse.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“That is because I was in my home, and you were technically in a part of yours,” Nizar replies. “I am currently your _guest_ at the moment, and that would be rude. There is a certain amount of decorum to be observed.”

 “Of course.” Severus smirks at him. “I do find it interesting that ‘wildly inappropriate’ and ‘horrible euphemism’ are considered separate categories. And…you are staring at me.”

That, at least, is easy to explain. “You look different here.” Nizar glances down at his hands. “Even I look different.”

“I never asked before. It seemed rude. What was it like, staring out from that portrait?” Severus asks.

“Like gazing through a glass wall. It alters your perception of size, obviously, but color, details…no one I could see looked the way _I_ did, but you’re three-dimensional in a way I was starting to—” Nizar frowns. “I was starting to lose my grasp on what that meant, actually.”

“I think you’re correct about needing sleep,” Severus says, which is a blatant change of subject that Nizar appreciates being granted. “There is a bathroom through there,” he says, pointing at the door to Nizar’s right, closest to the door that leads out. “I don’t know what to do about your clothes; perhaps the house-elves will have ideas.”

Nizar nods. In his portrait, they were fine, and suited his surroundings. In 1995, they are beyond archaic. “Thank you.”

He fiddles with the modern doorknob before figuring out how it functions and then closes the door. The bathing room is a private, tiled space, but sounds refuse to echo. He toes off his boots and walks over to the water basin—the sink—and looks into the mirror hanging on the wall above it.

Nizar looks younger than forty-two, but Salazar always said magicians of their line aged well. His eyes are the palette of greens, browns, and golds he’s familiar with; Salazar’s eyes are the same, though his hold more green. His skin is bronze, like the Moors and the Persians in the eastern deserts. No; Persia is no longer called that, but he can’t remember the correct name for that land now. He doesn’t even think the Moors are referred to like that. His nose is not too narrow or too wide; perhaps a bit snub. His mouth is generous; the lines near his eyes suggest humor rather than petulance.

He recognizes the man he’s staring at in the mirror. He doesn’t know himself at all. What has nearly a thousand years spent in a portrait done to his mind?

“Kanza. Speak to me?”

Kanza uncurls herself from his neck and glides down his sleeve to curl up in his hands. She is still as beautiful as the day she shed her first infant skin, revealing glistening black scales overlaid by glittering green gold. Her eyes are brilliant emeralds beneath her first eyelids.

“ _Of course. You’re more recognizable to me than my own face_ ,” Nizar says.

“ _That is because you spent a lot of time looking at me_.” Kanza’s tongue flicks out to taste his skin. “ _You are frightened. Why_?”

 _“I don’t feel like myself_.” Nizar strokes her head and uses his fingernails to scratch behind the ridges that will become her horns after a century of growth. “ _I’m in a safe place, but…_ ”

“ _Do not worry_ ,” Kanza says. “ _I am here. I will protect you_.”

Nizar smiles. “ _I don’t doubt that at all. Care to join me in the bath, or will you wait on the warm stones before it_?”

“ _Stones_ ,” Kanza decides.

Nizar removes his robe, wondering if the material it’s made from can be retailored to something more modern. The fabric is too fine to simply discard. He hangs it on a peg on the wall that’s shaped like merperson’s arm, which is fortunately ceramic, but unfortunately it brings more horrible euphemisms to mind.

The bathtub isn’t difficult to figure out. Not much has changed in that regard aside from the nature of what plugs the drain and the fact that he now has two faucets to turn for water, both of which are labeled. He’s really not sure what to make of any of the soaps and decides he’s going to enjoy hot water and figure out the rest later. Besides, the only dirt he’s picked up came from the Slytherin Common Room fireplace hearthstones.

The bath fills much faster than he’s used to. He hurries to pull off his linen shirt, truis, and woolen socks, leaving them in a neat pile on a shelf that is either designed for that purpose, or just happens to be conveniently available. When he slides into hot, steaming water, he has a brief flash of memory, something gold in his mind’s eye, and then it’s gone again. Odd, but not surprising. Rowena did say he should have patience with himself.

“Nizar?”

Nizar jerks upright at his name and the sharp knock that accompanies it. He splashes water onto the stone floor, which causes Kanza to hiss in irritation at being soaked before she tears him a new one. “I’m fine!” he yelps, wincing at the pathetic quality of his voice. “Unexpected napping, that’s all!”

He apologizes to Kanza and finds a towel that is quite honestly gigantic. Kanza joins him in the towel’s confines to dry off. Nizar’s clothing has been cleaned and hung near the bathing area. A set of modern pyjamas are waiting for him on that same empty shelf.

“Sneaky house-elves,” Nizar says, while Kanza curls around his neck. The pyjamas are black and too large, which means they probably belong to Severus. He was always a kind-hearted soul, even when he desperately wanted to be otherwise.

They’re also true silk, not the shiny artificial satin he’s sometimes seen pass through the Common Room. Creature comforts; he is spoiled rotten, and he doesn’t care.

Nizar has to roll up the trousers so he doesn’t trip over the length, but otherwise the fit is decent. The shirt sleeves are cuffed and tight enough that he can slide his wand into place, and he’s used to his shirts being long.

Nizar gathers up his belongings and emerges from the bathroom to find Severus seated on the sofa, a book held in one long-fingered hand. He stares at Severus for what is possibly longer than polite or necessary before he can say anything. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your evening. Especially the part where I fell asleep in your bathtub.”

“That is complete nonsense.” Severus puts the book aside and stands up. “This way.”

The other door reveals a sleeping chamber—a bedroom. “We’ll concern ourselves with other arrangements later. For tonight, I will sleep on that sofa. Before you protest, bear in mind that I’m spinning several mental wheels, and won’t be sleeping any time soon. One of us should rest, and right now, that is you.”

“You’re just trying to make our deal in regards to killing Voldemort more balanced.” Nizar regrets the words the moment they leave his lips. He was trying for something light-hearted, and that attempt failed miserably.

Severus glances away. “Perhaps I am.”

Nizar puts his clothing and boots down on the bedroom’s rug before turning around. “Severus?” The moment Severus faces him again, Nizar steps forward and hugs him. Severus freezes, stunned into near-Petrification.

“I always wanted to hug the person who said that a mere portrait was his friend,” Nizar whispers. “Thank you.”

Severus gingerly pats Nizar’s back and shoulder, as if he doesn’t know what else to do. “You are…welcome.”

Nizar releases him, sensing that if he does not, Severus might actually panic. Dear gods, he is going to hurt whoever taught his friend that the touch of another is a threat. “Good night.”

Severus nods once. “Sleep well.”

Nizar shuts the door before he blows out a single candle. He lies down on a bed with thick, soft sheets and a mattress that does _not_ seem to be composed of bound ticking, contemplating the dark room. Kanza uncurls herself from his neck so that she can nest in his hair, as is her custom.

“ _Maybe I shouldn’t have done that_.” For his sake, if not Severus’s—now that he’s concentrated on another’s touch, he desperately wants it back. A Preservation Charm does not prevent loneliness.

“ _It will be fine_ ,” Kanza says. “ _He likes you_.”

“ _He likes a portrait_.”

She seems amused by that statement. “ _Why does that make a difference_?”

Nizar stares up at a black ceiling. “I don’t know.”

He drops off soon after that and sleeps like a stone. He only awakens that morning when a house-elf rouses him to tell him that it’s eight in the morning, and breakfast is ready.

Nizar blinks a few times in confusion, remembers everything that happened last night, and can barely get words out of his throat to thank the elf. Then other details clamor for his attention. “Wait.”

“Yes?” the elf asks.

Nizar breathes until he feels some semblance of calm, which never takes long. A duelist who survives is one who can recover quickly. “My clothes—my robes, in particular. Is there any chance those could be altered into something that is of a more modern cut before ten o’clock this morning? The material is too valuable to discard, but it’s…well. It’s dated.”

The house-elf smiles. “We is being able to do that. If you let Filky measure you before breakfast, we can be getting you undergarments that fit, too, Master Slytherin.”

“You know my name?” Nizar asks, trying not to feel foolish. House-elves were still relatively new to Hogwarts in his time, and that was nearly a thousand years ago.

“All house-elves of Hogwarts know of Nizar the Protector,” the elf says, and vanishes in a pop of displaced air.

With Kanza back in her usual position, Nizar goes out to breakfast still dressed in borrowed pyjamas. A table has been set up in the middle of the room, and the smell of food accompanies it. He stalls out, staring down at everything. He’d forgotten those scents, missing them without remembering he missed anything at all.

If Severus slept on the sofa, he doesn’t look it. The man’s grooming is always impeccable, though it’s the first time in years Nizar has seen him without a coat, or coat and robes. He’s in trousers with a white shirt tucked in, not worn loose. “I think the elves overdid it. Why are you staring at me?”

Nizar tries not to wince. “Because you’re a real person I could actually reach out and touch, that’s why. It might be a little while before I get over that in regards to anyone. Well, not Dumbledore, not if he keeps it up with those blinding robes.”

Severus nods. “He will not be inclined to dress otherwise.”

“Then I will _not_ be staring at him,” Nizar says. Then Severus hands him tea, except it’s like nothing Nizar can recall. It’s fragrant and rich, a beautiful dark amber with sweetness lying beneath. Toasted bread and meats are familiar and easy to identify, though other foods are more interesting, like the cubed cane sugar from the Americas that sits in a container next to the honey.

Curiosities aside, Nizar is also grateful that he hasn’t forgotten how to eat. There had been water he could draw from a well in his portrait, but food had not been necessary, or available.

Nizar casts about in a desperate bid for conversation. “Did you sleep?” He is used to others conversing and departing, leaving him trapped and unable to follow. Now he’s free, but he isn’t used to the sensation. It almost makes him feel trapped anew.

“Somewhat,” Severus admits. “I worry about this meeting, though. I wonder if I should be present.”

The meeting with Minister Fudge and Dolores Umbridge—that is something Nizar can cope with. “Why?”

“I think Umbridge might be one of _his_.” There is no mistaking who Severus means. “If I’m part of the process that removes her from Hogwarts, it could endanger my position.”

“I think your position as a spy might be in danger, regardless,” Nizar points out. “A true Slytherin in Hogwarts again? One who supports you but rejects Voldemort? That will be immediate cause for suspicion.”

“It might be,” Severus agrees. “I shall simply have to do what I can, for as long as I can.”

Nizar can’t say anything, much as he’d prefer to beg Severus to stop spying on his insane great-grandnephew. If Voldemort were to find that child first, Severus needs to be in a position to do something about it.

He glances down at his hands. They seem normal to his eyes, but there is a quality of life to them that always lacked in the portrait. He’s not even sure he knows how to describe the difference to anyone, so he doesn’t try.

There is a silver ring on his left middle finger. He wonders if it’s a marriage band until he turns it around to discover the Deslizarse family crest etched into the metal. The Slytherin crest is similar, but lacks a few pertinent details.

“They called me Nizar the Protector,” he murmurs. “I don’t remember why.”

“Defence is a form of protection,” Severus says after a long moment of silence.

“I think it’s meant to be more than that. It’s etched in runes onto my wand.” Nizar sighs. “My very existence has placed you in grave danger—graver than you have ever been in since you left that bastard’s service.”

“It is a danger I am used to.”

Nizar nods. “Fair enough. I suppose we’ll just have to terrify the Minister into allowing me to have my job back.”

Severus seems to be biting back a smile. “Perhaps I should show you the textbooks for the subject, then.” He stands to gather a stack of seven slim books from one of his bookshelves.

Nizar begins perusing them with a third cup of tea in his hand. Simple curiosity quickly becomes ire.

He glares up at Severus. “These are complete rubbish!”

Severus lifts an eyebrow. “Those are the instruction manuals approved by the school’s Board of Governors.”

“Are they all imbeciles?” Nizar demands in disbelief.

“Yes, actually.”

“I am not teaching this shit,” Nizar says flatly. “They can keep their books, but no. Absolutely not. I refuse to teach children how to become easily slaughtered sheep.”

Severus finally allows himself a real smile. “They are going to adore you,” he says dryly.

“I don’t care if they hate my entire existence as long as they listen to me,” Nizar mutters.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar has just finished getting dressed in his clothes from last night when the house-elves bring him his altered robes. The wool-blended silk has been retailored to fit modern lines and lengths; part of the material was salvaged to make fitted gloves for his hands, perfect for weather in the north. He does appreciate the additional socks, which are not wool, but black-dyed cotton with an intriguing stretch. He sends back the undergarments. He is completely unfamiliar with modern undergarments and doesn’t need the extra complication; in his time, an undergarment was a long linen shirt and nothing else. At least his gloves will fit in one of his robe pockets, of which there are now five instead of two. The fifth, the elves tell him, has been altered with a charm for infinite available space. He’s not sure _infinite_ is a good idea, but it does save him from needing to carry any sort of bag.

He slips his feet into his boots and pulls them on, then retreats to the bathroom long enough to regard the mirror again. It takes a great deal of water, combing, and swearing to tie his hair back so that it’s a sleek tail without a hint of curl, but his family always told him that the affectation made him look more intimidating. He has a feeling that might be useful today, whereas charm-laced venom and being underestimated are his usual tools.

 _It’s probably easier to do this as a Metamorphmagus_ , Nizar thinks sourly. He has to figure out how to do that again.

“That’s different,” Severus observes, waiting by the door that leads back out into the castle. “You look as if you’re ready to kill someone.”

Nizar smiles. “One never knows if it will be useful.”

“I wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

“Lies,” Nizar says under his breath. He’s gratified when he can see humor lurking in Severus’s eyes.

Nizar follows Severus on the same route back to the Headmaster’s office, but this time there are students about. “Hello, Miss Bulstrode.”

“Hello, sir,” Bulstrode greets him. “Still not a painting, I see.”

“He never _was_ a painting,” Severus snaps.

Bulstrode blinks a few times. “Er…what?”

“Tell everyone that I’ll explain it to them this evening, Miss Bulstrode. Eight o’clock in the Common Room.”

Nizar shrugs at her when she gapes at him. “You heard him. Might want to pass along the word.”

“That’s—that’s Pansy’s job!” Bulstrode sputters.

“And she’s really bad at it, too,” Nizar says. He doesn’t get the chance to scratch a gargoyle statue; Severus has already whispered a password to Galfridus’s ears. “I will be seeing you about, Miss Bulstrode.”

“Yeah—er, yes, sir!”

“Just in time,” Dumbledore says, as a man comes tumbling out of green flames in the fireplace.

“What the fuck?” Nizar whispers. He already dislikes Minister Cornelius Fudge. The man hasn’t done anything yet except stand up and righten his ugly hat, but Nizar can’t stand him.

“Floo. I take it you did not have such a thing in your time,” Severus murmurs in response.

“No, we could fucking _Desplazarse._ ” Nizar watches as Dumbledore greets Fudge. “Apparate.”

“Some people,” Severus pauses and glances at Fudge, “are not good at Apparition.”

“ _Zure eskolaratzea gaitzetsi dituzte I_ ,” Nizar says.

“What does that mean?” Severus asks.

“Oh, it’s something Salazar used to say. A lot. I can’t remember why, though. Also, I’m not sure I recall what it means.”

A woman enters through one of the double doors. She’s garbed in a pink sweater, a simpering smile on her face. Dolores.

Nizar’s wand is in his hand and pointing at her before he becomes fully aware of his own actions. It’s instinct, completely unchanged by the passing centuries. His words emerge as a snarl of rage. “ _Put it on the fucking desk_!”

“I beg your pardon!” Umbridge draws herself up in offence. “How dare you!”

Nizar puts the strength of his blood, training, and authority into his voice, and Hogwarts answers his call. “Put. It. On. The. Desk.”

Umbridge blinks a few times before drawing a quill from her bag. She drops it on Dumbledore’s desk, steps back, and then shakes her head in confusion. “How dare you!” she repeats.

“ _How dare you bring that fucking thing into_ my _school_!” Nizar roars back. That quill has been used recently, and it stinks of evil fueled by blood.

Severus picks up the quill and then drops it, wide-eyed. Dumbledore frowns and takes a handkerchief from his robes before he picks up the quill to study it. “A blood quill? Oh, Dolores. I expect so much better from the Ministry.”

“Is it indeed a blood quill?” Fudge asks. At least the man sounds horrified.

Nizar can barely see what’s in front of him. This…this mockery of a _teacher_ harmed students under her care with foul magic and scars, violating the safety of the walls in which he learned to become himself. “TELL THEM!”

Umbridge scowls at Nizar. “Of course it is,” she declares haughtily. “One must control the unruly in some manner!”

Nizar slowly lowers his wand. If he doesn’t, he’s going to kill her. That will not get him his job back. It’s more likely to get him arrested, though he wouldn’t linger in the castle for such a thing to happen. Still, it wouldn’t be a brilliant start to his modern career.

“Cornelius?” Dumbledore looks at the Minister.

“I knew nothing of this. I did not approve this—this abuse!” Fudge shouts.

“You’re lying.” Nizar smiles. “And Hogwarts knows it.”

Fudge turns red and starts to sweat, which isn’t improving Nizar’s opinion of the man. “I will admit that I gave Dolores Umbridge the full authority of my office to do what was necessary to root out corruption in Hogwarts, but that did not include violating wizarding laws regarding the use of Dark artefacts!”

“Better.” Nizar is going to start trembling; he refuses to do so. Absolutely not. Not in front of that woman, who is even more disappointing now than she’d been as a teenager. Children can grow out of being horrible cretins, and she chose not to.

Fudge adjusts the fit of that ridiculous-looking hat. “And you, good sir! Who are you?” Umbridge tries to edge her way towards the door and finds her way blocked by an incensed, black-haired Slytherin. Severus glares at her until she drifts back towards the center of the room. Nizar’s eyes on her convince the woman that it’s safest to lurk near the fireplace.

“I am Nizar Hariwalt Slytherin, brother of Salazar Slytherin, preserved in this school and brought forth the moment Hogwarts required a protector.” The words spill from Nizar’s lips as the castle’s magic helps supply what is needed. “Given what your agent has brought into these halls, I think Hogwarts’ timing is accurate. I will be staying and taking back my role as Defence teacher for these students, Minister. Fight this decree, and Hogwarts itself will rise up against you—and you do not want to anger a castle that was built in the year 828, Minister. The magical structures from that century can be a bit violent. They still remember the invasions.”

“You can’t be the brother of Salazar Slytherin. That was almost a thousand years ago,” Fudge says at once.

“Yes, he _is_ my brother,” Salazar hisses in rage. Nizar looks up to discover that his brother’s portrait has invaded Phineas’s frame again. Phineas just looks resigned to the inevitable. “I am Salazar Slytherin, and though I may be a portrait, I am legally recognized by the Ministry as a Founder of Hogwarts, a source of historical accuracy, and my word is tantamount to law. Or do you wish to fight the Founders on this, too?” he asks, as Godric, Helga, and Rowena come forth, revealing themselves in portraits on the lowest level of the office. The four of them glare down at Fudge and Umbridge in scathing disapproval.

Dumbledore seems to take the entire scene in calm repose. “Well, I suppose that settles the matter. Dolores will have to go to trial for the use of such an artefact, of course—”

“Trial!” Fudge stares at Dumbledore, then at the blood quill Dumbledore is still holding. “Yes…yes, I suppose you’re correct.”

“And, of course, Nizar will be our new Defence teacher, so our replacement for the position is finally at hand,” Dumbledore says cheerfully.

Fudge sighs and secures his hat again. “Fine. _Dolores_! You’re coming back with me!”

Nizar waits until both Minister and his Umbridge lackey have disappeared into the Floo. “If I see that woman again, I’ll kill her.”

Dumbledore wraps the blood quill in the handkerchief and puts it down on his desk, sighing. “I wonder how many she tortured, and right under my very nose. I should have known.”

Nizar shakes off the nerves that are trying to undo him and points his wand at the quill. The answer comes to him like a thought drifting into his mind. “Twenty-eight. Differing Houses, but of all Houses. And you’re right,” Nizar adds, glancing at Dumbledore. “You should have known, but I don’t think that’s your failing. Where is the Defence classroom?”

“A moment, please,” Dumbledore requests. “I need to alert the school as to the canceling of Defence classes for the rest of the week.”

“Week?” Nizar asks, curious.

Dumbledore gives him a look that at last seems to be genuine kindness, not a teaching mask. “You are calm, and coping admirably with the events of the last twelve hours, but I would consider it a cruelty to shove you into a teaching position before even a full day has passed.”

“It would be a good idea to reacquaint yourself with existence, dearest,” Helga says.

“Do you even remember where your quarters are?” Godric sounds amused.

“No, but does that matter? They would have been claimed—” Nizar pauses. “Oh. I suppose that depends on if the original Defence classroom is in use.”

“Not in the active sense,” Rowena says.

Nizar frowns. “That isn’t useful!”

“You should seek it by yourself,” Salazar suggests. “Until you gain more of memories, its secrets should be yours alone.”

Severus glares at Nizar’s brother. “Please tell me it’s not another bloody Chamber of Secrets.”

“My other portrait already told you, Head of my House—I didn’t give the room that name!” Salazar protests. “Even my pretentiousness has limits.”

“The classroom wasn’t below ground, anyway,” Nizar says, amused by Salazar’s reaction. They’d always just called it a chamber. Someone else must have come along to add the additional nonsense.

“Are you all right?” Severus asks him while Dumbledore is occupied. “I really did believe you were going to kill her.”

“I considered it.” Nizar sucks in a breath and then tucks his wand into his sleeve. “I’m fine.”

“Intimidating, too.” Severus gives him a bland look. “Are you a Seer, like Salazar?”

Nizar shakes his head. “No. Do you remember that I once told you that for scant moments, I sometimes see things clearly?” He waits until Severus frowns and then nods in recollection. “I get flashes of insight, or I prepare for things that have yet to be like it’s a certainty without even realizing I’m doing so.”

Dumbledore and Severus lead Nizar to a room on the second floor, an office that still has Umbridge’s belongings in it. Nizar waits while Dumbledore gathers up the woman’s things. He resists the urge to ask who needs that much pink, or that many moving pictures of cats. He also does not suggest throwing Umbridge’s belongings into the still-burning fire. Severus does that, instead.

Severus opens a door in the rear of the office; Nizar follows the others up two flights of stairs. A doorway lets them emerge out into the front section of a classroom. “This would be it. Fourth floor, though the students have to use the public stairs to access it,” Dumbledore says. “I believe Defence has been taught in the Defence Tower for at least two centuries, though I suspect longer, as no one seems to recall when this tower gained the name.”

“It’s always been named that. Look at the windows.” Nizar points at the narrow windows that let in light. “Archers or wands. This was a central defence point when the castle was under attack.”

Dumbledore seems intrigued. “Did that happen often?”

Nizar frowns. “Often enough that I actually remember it.” He blinks dark spots away from his vision as he investigates the room. He pulled too much, all at once and too soon, but he can’t let this stand. He can’t let this be. Hogwarts should have told the Headmaster that wrong was being done to the students of the school. It was interwoven in her magic, it should have—

“What the hell is this?” Nizar prods at the magic staining part of Hogwarts’ weave. It is off-colored and sickly, and it definitely doesn’t belong.

“There is a curse on the Defence position,” Dumbledore informs him. “There has been since I denied Tom Marvolo Riddle the post of Defence teacher.”

“Curse.” Nizar stares at him in disbelief. “This is no mere curse. This is interference!”

“What do you mean?” Dumbledore asks, but Nizar ignores him and places his hand against the stone, then rests his forehead against the wall. He’s spoken to the magic of the castle often; he is directly tied to it, just as all the first teachers after the Founders were. After 994, the student body expanded too fast, too rapidly, for four magicians alone to keep up with all that needed to be done.

For some reason, Hogwarts, can’t see the magic corrupting her weave. Nizar guides her sight down to that warped bit of wrongness, and then watches in vicious delight as Hogwarts obliterates the stain. The classroom feels lighter at once, like a normal part of the castle.

When he turns around, Dumbledore is glancing around at the ceiling, listening as the change announces itself. Nizar can tell that Severus is aware of it on some level; his dark eyes are unfocused as he tries to discern what happened. “What did you do?”

“I showed Hogwarts that someone left something behind, hidden from her sight.” Nizar leans back against the wall. “All that was needed was for her to be able to see it, and she got rid of Riddle’s nonsense on her own. The curse on the instructor’s position was only part of the problem, Headmaster. This _room_ was cursed. It was designed to create evil inclinations or failure. Only the strongest of your students would have been true successes. Oh, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be passing out now,” he says, and blacks out the moment he finishes speaking.


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You finally stand up for the sake of someone in your own House, but only when he’s not around to see it.”

Nizar’s fall is so unexpected that he nearly spills onto the stone floor before Severus and Albus can draw their wands to catch him. “And that is why I didn’t want to push,” Albus murmurs as Severus retrieves Nizar. “A visit to Poppy might be in order, I think.”

“It is possibly something that should have been done last night,” Severus replies. For someone so blasted short, Nizar is heavier than he appears. He is, at least, breathing normally.

“Perhaps,” Albus agrees. “But as the portraits said—this is a magical working that has been performed exactly once, and we’re dealing with the aftermath of that single working. I have to address the other Heads of House and discern who our injured students are. We’ll need to record their names and the incidents in question. After you’ve left our new friend with Poppy, I’ll need your assistance to do the same for the Slytherins.”

“It’s more accurate to say I’ll need to discuss the matter with my students and then pass those names and details on to you,” Severus counters. “Please inform Mister Malfoy that the evening meeting just became this afternoon’s, immediately after lunch.” Albus nods, smiling, and leaves the room.

The moment he’s gone, Severus casts a Disillusionment Charm over himself and Nizar. It isn’t perfect camouflage, but it will keep them from being harassed by curious students all the way to the hospital wing.

Poppy walks out of her office just as Severus enters the room, dropping the charm. She gives his burden a curious inspection. “Oh, I see. We’ve moved on to kidnapping grown wizards for nefarious purposes.”

Severus glares at her. “No. We’ve resorted to even odder things than that.” He places Nizar onto the first empty bed he comes to. “We have an adult wizard who was locked inside a damned portrait until yesterday evening.”

Poppy looks shocked. “That isn’t just a silly rumor?”

It seems he needs to re-educate some of his Slytherins on the meaning of subtlety. “It is not. However, he seemed fine until he performed a single bit of magic.”

“I see.” Poppy begins a wand-casted diagnostic spell and halts in confusion. “Two life-signs?”

Nizar’s eyes crack open before he focuses on Severus and Poppy in turn. “Healer?” he rasps.

“Matron, but I suppose you could consider it the same thing,” Poppy says.

“S’fine.” Severus has to keep Poppy from leaping backwards when the hissing of a Parselmouth emerges from Nizar’s lips. Kanza removes herself from Nizar’s neck and curls up in a glittering black circle on the white pillow near Nizar’s head. Nizar’s hissing repeats itself before his lips part in a faint smile. “B’easier now.”

“I should certainly hope so!” Poppy declares. “I didn’t know we had another Parselmouth.” She lifts her chin and recasts the spell, then frowns.

“Well?” Severus asks, growing impatient with her silence.

“No physical ailments or signs of infirmity, which is good considering I don’t know what I’d do about either for a man who dwelled in a _portrait_.” Poppy’s tone of voice reflects her poor opinion of that decision. “He has a strong magical core, but one that hasn’t been accessed properly in quite some time. That would certainly fit with where your new friend spent his time recently. His magic would have mistaken that first spell as a terrible drain on his resources, panicked, and declared that a prompt nap was necessary in order to prevent damage. As long as he completes that nap, and reintroduces himself to spellwork in a more cautious manner, he will be fine.”

Severus lets out a brief sigh. “Thank you.”

Poppy nods, lingering long enough to use magic to remove the man’s green robes before she shoves them at Severus. He shakes his head and hangs them from the nearest robe hook, listening to Poppy mutter dire things about headaches under her breath as she steals the tie from Nizar’s hair.

“How are your stores of Dittany?”

Poppy flicks a sheet into place and then holds out her hand for Kanza’s inspection. The woman either has no fear, or rumors of a new basilisk haven’t made as much progress. “For a normal school term, they should be fine.”

“We’re about to have an influx of twenty-eight students bearing cursed wounds. Send off for more by owl,” Severus requests. “I’ll be brewing more. I don’t trust it to remain a normal school term.”

“Right, then. I’ll do that at once.” Poppy gives him a nod and then retreats into her office, shutting the door.

“Wasn’t one spell.” Severus glances down to see Nizar’s eyes are open again, if unfocused. “More like two or three. No, Kanza says four, and that I can’t count.”

“What did you do to the pink toad?” Severus asks.

“Don’t insult toads that way. Known some perfectly respectable toads.” Nizar smiles. “I did my job, Severus. The castle’s magic was behind my words. Don’t think she would have admitted t’anything otherwise.”

Severus knows that Hogwarts’ teachers—and its over-spangled Headmaster—have lost quite a bit of the castle’s magical workings since the time of the Founders, but that is like nothing he’s ever heard of. “How did you know about the blood quill?”

“Scent. Blood magic’s one thing. Blood magic used to harm…that’s different.” Nizar blinks several times in an attempt to focus on him. “Y’should go. Kids t’look after, Severus.”

Severus is trying to ignore the cold chill running down his back. “You can sense the presence of blood magic meant to harm?”

“Yes, I’m aware of the Mark. All the time. I’d remove it if you’d let me,” Nizar whispers, and passes out again.

Severus finds himself reaching out towards Nizar’s shoulder and freezes with his hand lingering too close. The idea that the Mark could be removed before the Dark Lord’s defeat—if they find Potter, then he could truly consider ceasing to spy for the Order. He hasn’t gained much useful information, which is a far cry from the last war. At least then, the Cruciatus Curse had seemed a small price to pay.

Severus notes the dark brown stubble on Nizar’s face. “You didn’t shave this morning,” he says in a low voice, and then bites back a smile. His foolishness, perhaps; it’s likely Nizar wouldn’t have recognized the modern version of those implements, and Severus refuses to keep a straight razor in his quarters.

He watches as Kanza perks up and slides along the pillow into Nizar’s hair. He thinks she’s going to sleep there when he realizes that the basilisk is crawling directly into his hand. “Oh—no,” he requests, trying not to wince. “You should stay here.”

Kanza ignores him, climbing his sleeve, then his shoulder, before deliberately poking her head beneath the collar to his shirt before she wraps herself around his neck. Severus presses his lips together and tries not to make any sudden movements.

“I am _not_ comfortable with this!”

Kanza readjusts herself until her grip around his neck isn’t as tight, but otherwise has made it clear she’s settled in for the duration. Severus gives up. “Fine, but I’m bringing you back here as soon as I’m done.”

Severus stops by the Great Hall, where lunch is still being served. He catches Draco’s eyes; the boy nods to show that the message was received. Severus inclines his head at Draco and continues on to his office. He normally buys enough dittany for a year of classroom use, but no matter what, he’ll need to brew more Essence of Dittany. Preparing a cauldron for that reduction will take up the rest of the lunch hour, and provide an excellent distraction.

Kanza also provides distraction when she won’t stop peering out of his shirt collar, or resting her head on his shoulder to observe. “You really need to make up your mind,” Severus tells her, frowning. “Unlike your translator, I’m not used to wearing basilisks on my person.” Kanza blinks her emerald eyes at him. “Yes, I’m saying that you are tickling me!”

She flicks her tongue out at his hair, but stops crawling back and forth. Instead, she loops herself over his shoulders, scenting the air as the first wafts of simmering dittany rise into the air. “Watch out. It’s flammable.” Kanza obligingly keeps her head further from the cauldron.

 _I am brewing a minor potion with a one thousand year old infant basilisk,_ Severus thinks, and tries to figure out how the hell he went from Hallowe’en depression to _this_. He’s all but certain that in this instance, he is correct to blame Nizar.

Severus gives the students enough time to gather in the Common Room before he joins them. At his request, Kanza is politely hiding beneath the collar of his shirt so she does not distract his Slytherins from the purpose of this meeting. Aside from Defence, Albus only canceled the classes that take place in the hour after lunch, not the entire afternoon.

Warrington scrambles upright as soon as he notices Severus. “Sir! Is the pink toad really gone?”

“That is not actually what I’m here to speak to you about…but yes, the pink toad has departed,” he replies, and is unsurprised by a widespread rush of relief. “You’ve three guesses who is replacing her, and no, it isn’t me.”

Miss Bulstrode’s eyes light up. “It’s going to be him, isn’t it? The portrait who isn’t a portrait!”

Severus frowns. “You all _do_ recall what subtlety is, yes? Within the span of two hours, the entire school knows of Nizar Slytherin’s presence via portrait. Do try to not immediately blab all you learned to the entire student body.”

“We’re finally going to have two Slytherins at the faculty table.” The elder Greengrass sibling looks shocked. “I thought I’d graduate before that happened, Professor.”

“I was beginning to believe I would be deceased before that time,” he counters. “Remember that there are times when pride should be focused upon, and other times when it should be set aside. That pink blasted toad was using a blood quill in Hogwarts. We know that she tortured twenty-eight students with it—and yes, that is exactly what it is. Torture.” Severus stares hard at them. “Anyone who believes otherwise has never carved open their own hand with a writing implement over and over again. Please do not, by the way.”

“Right.” Pritchard is starting to look a bit green. “No plans on that, myself.”

“Good. Now, I will not make anyone stand up and out themselves if they’re feeling shy, or if they feel that this is somehow a personal failing. It is not; I’ve seen the list of reasons that woman submitted for detentions, and literally all of those reasons were ludicrous.”

Severus crosses his arms and lets his eyes glance over those faces peering back at him. Ten Slytherins had detention with Umbridge, and he hopes that ten of those twenty-eight victims are not in this room.

“Miss Prewett,” he says, glancing at the only ginger residing in his House. “What is the only thing that will possibly remove the scarring from a cursed wound?”

She frowns for a moment before her expression clears. “Dittany, sir.”

“And Essence of Dittany is more effective than that. Make no mistake: these wounds will scar you for life if they are left untreated,” Severus tells them. “I will be in my office until two o’clock. I’ll return there at four o’clock, and will be available until dinner at seven. If anyone has an injury that needs to be treated, no matter how trivial you believe it to be, do not hesitate. At the very least, consider that a scar is an identifying feature, you idiots.”

“I’ll go with you right now, sir,” Daphne Greengrass says as she stands up. “I’d like to have the best chance of my hand not scarring.”

“I see. What did you do to infuriate the toad, Miss Greengrass?” Severus asks politely.

“I told her that she was the most rubbish teacher we’ve ever had for DADA, and that includes Gilderoy Lockhart.” Miss Greengrass scowls. “I really despise her for the fact that I had to say those words, but the quill torture that she claimed was Ministry-approved was not fun, either.”

“It was _not_ approved by the Ministry. Fudge is an imbecile, but he was being honest in that matter, at least.” Severus glances around the room, and when he realizes no one else is going to be as brave, has Miss Greengrass follow him to his office.

“You should have come to me the moment this happened,” Severus says when his office door is closed.

Miss Greengrass perches daintily on the edge of a chair. “Ministry-approved, we thought. You can’t save us from the Ministry, Professor.”

Severus frowns as he retrieves the small bottle of Essence of Dittany he brewed at the beginning of July. “Like hell I can’t,” he mutters. “This will not hurt, but it will most certainly look as if it does.”

Greengrass regards the process with a critical eye, and never once flinches. Severus doesn’t ask what the shining white letters say, and she doesn’t volunteer the answer. “You’ll need to do this twice more for the next two evenings. Do not skip either application. I believe the damage is minimal enough that it shouldn’t scar, but I cannot guarantee the same if you don’t return. What you _should_ do is pay attention in Potions so that you’ll be in my N.E.W.T. class next year.”

Greengrass smiles at him ruefully. “I’m a Pureblood whose parents believe she’s only useful for a good marriage. What would be the point of such a thing?”

“Miss Greengrass, you have potential,” Severus says, irritated by such easy capitulation. “Do not waste that potential on another’s say-so. Your parents are not the ones who have to live with your decisions for the rest of your life. If you make a good marriage, do so because you insist upon it, not because they do.”

Greengrass lowers her eyes, but she nods. “Yes, sir.”

Severus escorts her from his office. Sometimes he despairs of any of them seeing sense. He has been firmly told that he isn’t allowed to shake it into them.

Five minutes later, there is another knock on his door. “Come in, Mister Zabini.” Severus waves the young man inside. “And what did _you_ do to rile the pink toad?”

“Well, the Gryffindors are rather passionate in their insistence that You-Know-Who is alive, which is just good sense, I think,” Zabini says. “I didn’t exactly jump on their party, but then the toad pulled out insults based on skin color when we wouldn’t knock off with it. I called her a right twat. Only regret I have is that my hand’s still bleeding.”

“She sent you away, deliberately, before the named punishment was complete.” Severus frowns over Zabini’s hand as he removes the cotton handkerchief Zabini tied around his bleeding wounds. “If it’s any assurance, she’s going on trial for deliberate use of a banned Dark Artefact, along with twenty-eight instances of abuse of a minor with a Dark Artefact.”

“That’s an Azkaban sentence, right off.” Zabini smiles as the dittany is applied. “Thank you, Professor.”

Severus gives him the same instructions that Miss Greengrass received regarding the next two treatments. “Gryffindors,” he mutters in derision after Zabini leaves. “You finally stand up for the sake of someone in your own House, but only when he’s not around to see it.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar jolts awake in the dark, his heart hammering in his chest. Nothing smells familiar. This is not his bed. He has no idea where he is—

Then recognition filters in, and he drops his head back down onto the pillow. It’s not fully dark; there are lamps with the flame turned down low scattered around. He can sense Hogwarts’ magic, and Kanza is a warm loop around his neck. He is a person instead of a portrait, one who gets to wander around while trying to figure out why a great deal of his memories seem to be missing.

Nizar sits up and discovers that his boots are sitting next to the bed, and his robes are hanging on a peg nearby. He doesn’t see the healer, so he pulls on his boots and stands, relieved when everything feels normal. He puts his robe back on and makes his way to the exit, cracking open the double doors.

Outside is a corridor populated with students all trotting in one direction. He takes a deep breath and discovers a faint scent of food on the air. If it’s dark, then it’s their dinner hour. Food might be nice, but he’s in no mood to face a crowd of students. He also wants to know what became of his original classroom.

“ _Invisibilia in oculis vestris_,” he whispers. He holds out his arm to be certain the spell worked and sees nothing. To hell with that pathetic Disillusionment Charm; he’s teaching the better version to Severus. He just has to figure out how to frame it as a trade, first.

Nizar steps out into the corridor and stays close to the wall next to the door. There are no useful landmarks, so he follows the flow of students and discovers the Grand Stair. Better. He waits for an opportunity and then walks over to the railing, glancing down and counting to discover that he’s on the fourth floor.

The tower he’d just come from was a healing hall, but in his time that had only taken up the first and second floor, not the fourth. The first floor had been for treatment, the second for recovery.

Nizar mounts the stairs and climbs slowly, staying against the outer wall. He pauses as a twin pair of gingers slide down the stairwell bannister. He watches them, feeling an unwilling smile spread across his face. They’re adults, or close enough, and don’t seem to be all that interested in letting adulthood take joy from their lives. If only so many others had held onto that same joy.

Oh, good. He’s gone maudlin, and doesn’t even remember enough to know why.

On the sixth floor landing, he encounters yet another pair of bright-haired gingers, possibly family to the older twins. Both boy and girl are tugging on the hands of a brown-haired girl who looks like Nizar feels. The youngest boy, one with a messy mop of dark red hair, is watching the others and biting his lip as he tries to figure out how to help.

“Come on. Dinner. Food always helps, right?” the ginger boy asks. He’s wearing a Prefect’s badge, as is the girl who isn’t ginger.

“I miss Harry,” she says, which makes the other three students flinch. “Hallowe’en just made it worse, that’s all. I’m not very hungry, anyway.”

These Gryffindors must be students who knew young Potter, the one Severus feels so guilty about. Severus might talk of how he hates having failed Lily Evans Potter, but Nizar merely fell out of a painting yesterday—he was born ages ago, and he knows better. You don’t have to like someone to regret failing them, and Potter’s disappearance is still eating at Severus.

 Nizar drops the Invisibility Charm and startles all four children. “You should eat. Your friend would probably hate to think that you’re needlessly harming yourself out of worry.”

The gingers stare at Nizar as if he’s going to eat them, even though the ginger boy is taller than Nizar; the younger boy hangs back behind the girl. It’s the brown-haired Prefect who dashes at her eyes with both hands and looks up at him with interest and curiosity instead of fear.

“You’re our rumored portrait, then?” she asks.

Nizar reaches out and pokes the girl’s shoulder with two fingers. “Since when can portraits do this?”

“I dunno. This castle does a lot of things it’s not supposed to,” the ginger girl ventures.

Nizar nods in acceptance of her words. “Excellent point, as that now also includes me. I’m Nizar Hariwalt Slytherin, Gryffindors.”

“Hariwalt,” the brown-haired Prefect repeats. She even uses the proper _v_ -sound, not the more commonly mistaken _w_. “That’s the word that eventually became herald in modern English. Is that what you are? A herald?”

“No, Nizar Hariwalt was a name combined from two languages to mean ‘little war leader,’” Nizar answers. “Herald is about three centuries younger than Hariwalt. You are incredibly well-read.”

She smiles. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a while, sir.”

“You—saying sir—he’s a SLYTHERIN!” the ginger boy blurts out.

“Yes, thus known for things like discretion and not shouting out random things in corridors,” Nizar replies. “Or should I immediately assume that you, like Godric, couldn’t keep it in his trousers for more than a single day at a time?”

The ginger turns bright red. “I would never!”

“Never? Well, then I hope you don’t plan to wed someone who wants children.” The ginger girl and her curly-haired shadow start laughing. The ginger boy stands there, sputtering without managing to say any kind of word in its entirety. “Oh, you’re going to be fun. Verbal defence is another form of defence, you know.”

“You _are_ going to be our Defence teacher?” the ginger girl asks. “That’s the other rumor—that you’re replacing the pink toad.”

“Why does everyone have such terrible things to say about toads?” Nizar wonders. “As of…I suppose Monday? Yes, you have to put up with learning Defence from a _Slytherin_ ,” he emphasizes, which puts ginger boy right back to sputtering again.

Nizar looks at the brown-haired girl and lifts an eyebrow. “Also part of your defence: being well-fed enough to lift your wand and cast proper spells in a manner timely enough to save your skin. Your friend isn’t dead, young Gryffindor, and that is something known for certain. He is just exceptionally misplaced, which is all _anyone_ knows. Go eat dinner, even if the most you manage is a slice of bread. Never starve yourself in a time of plenty. Famine rears its annoying head often enough.”

That seems to trigger the ginger boy into using real words. “Not in the twentieth century, mate.”

“Ron. We know better,” the brown-haired girl says. “You remember what Harry said—”

“And we’re not repeating that in front of the enemy!” Ron snaps.

“Yes, definitely fun,” Nizar says. “The next time he puts his foot in it, cast _Non loquis_ , followed by the period of time you wish for silence. Never more than a day, or you risk harming someone who is not an enemy, just irritating.”

“Hey!” Ron the Prefect blurts.

“You’re the one who declared me your enemy. Suffer,” Nizar responds blithely, and continues his way up the stairs. Nizar does hope the Prefect girl has dinner. He might be a partial amnesiac, but he’s still capable of doling out useful advice. He did it for over nine centuries while hanging on a fucking wall.

“But he—”

“ _Non loquis_ five minutes!” the ginger girl snaps before Nizar can even make it around the stairwell curve. He has to take a moment, lean against the wall, and muffle near-hysterical laughter.

The seventh floor corridors are quiet. When he arrives at what he knows is the right passageway, there is no door. He circles around that entire section of the seventh floor again to be certain, but still—no door.

“Why is there no door?” Nizar glares at the blank stretch of wall. “I know you’re there. Where did they hide the damned door?” He feels his way along the old stones, but he can’t find anything: no sense of where a door might have been walled off, and no hint of magic that would signal a door being disguised.

“Where is my classroom, where is my classroom, where is my classroom?” he repeats in anger. Then he takes a step back when the oak door materializes in the stone.

“Oh, that’s clever. No, that’s terrible. Who did this?” Nizar asks, but there is no one in the corridor to answer him. There are no portraits, and the tapestry behind him doesn’t hold the magic to speak. He suspects there is a reason for that, and that reason is associated with his missing door.

Nizar pushes the door open. The wall sconces flare up in response, illuminating a space so familiar that it makes his chest hurt. The Slytherin Common Room is what he knows best, but this bestirs memories. He taught here, trained young ones to keep themselves safe and to defend others, no matter their blood or their status in society.

His feet leave no prints; there is no layer of dust on the floor. The house-elves were cleaning the room, perhaps, or maybe it’s been so long since humans were inside that dust couldn’t form.

Nizar shuts the door behind him and gazes around, swallowing hard. There are no chairs or tables. The room is empty of everything except the other ironbound oak door to his left. “They knew they were going to move the classroom,” he says aloud, his voice echoing in the empty space. “They knew they were going to change the magic, hide this place. Why?” The castle’s magic can’t answer that question. He is either not being specific enough, or the castle doesn’t know—just as she’d remained unaware of the foul magic Tom Riddle left behind.

If Nizar teaches in this place, he’ll have to arrive first and leave the door propped open. Otherwise they won’t be able to find the room, and he’d prefer to remain here. He might have cleansed the classroom downstairs, but this is _his_ territory. He made this space, crafted it using Hogwarts’ magic to be what he needed. It can present students with outdoor spaces, targets to blast apart, shadows to twist into whatever they fear—

“Dammit.” Nizar wipes his face dry with his robe sleeve. He remembers teaching his nieces and nephews in these rooms. He taught his children here.

Children.

The sound Nizar makes in response to remembering that significant fact is probably horrendous. He had children, three children, and they’re all gone.

Nizar goes to the other door, running his hands over the metal _S_ -shape resting against the wood. Memory filters in, telling him what to do. “Magisterdóm. Office,” he murmurs, and then flips it. “ _Herebeorg_. Quarters,” he says, and opens the door.

There is a sitting room before him with grey stone walls, ceiling, and floor; a cast-iron candelabra hangs from the ceiling, and holds fresh burning candles to light the room, assisted by two wall sconces. The rug on the floor is woven wool from the East. Closest to the door is a weathered trestle table with two chairs that seem more modern than they should be. There is a window to the left that reveals a dark night and a waxing gibbous moon, and directly opposite is a sofa with dark green cushions. Nizar stares at it, eyes narrowed. That was not originally a sofa. That was a padded bench. The green velvet armchair nearby was not an armchair, it was a wooden rocking chair that—that someone made. Nizar sags against the doorframe, feeling a huge and terrible knot in his chest.

 _Please let them still be there_.

Nizar ignores the obvious updates, likely the work of house-elves. He closes his eyes, takes six steps forward into the room, and turns to his right. When he opens his eyes, their portraits are still on the wall above the sofa—Galiena, Brice, and his youngest, Elfric **.**

Their portraits were all painted when his children attained magical majority at age fourteen, trained and ready to apprentice themselves to a master of their chosen craft. They were all his children by magical adoption: dark-haired and pale-eyed Galiena, whose lips always turned up at one corner; sandy-haired and green-eyed Brice, who always smiled even if he was facing a battle; slender and elfin Elfric, brown-haired and brown-eyed, who was quiet and sneaky in all the best ways.

“Hello, you three,” Nizar whispers.

“Hello, Father,” Galiena greets him. “Don’t mind their silence. English is hard.”

“It really is. Refused to practice again, did they?”

Galiena smiles. “We all know who the scholar in the family is, and it was not my brothers.”

“No. That was always you,” Nizar agrees in a choked voice. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And…and you, Father,” Brice manages, but his face screws up as he says each word. Elfric nods at him, looking frustrated.

“They didn’t believe we’d ever speak to you again,” Galiena explains. “They stopped believing it true that you would return.”

Nizar lifts his shoulders in a careless shrug. “That’s all right. I forgot I was a person for centuries.”

“The magic deteriorated that badly?” Galiena shakes her head. “I’m surprised you remember us at all.”

 _I almost didn’t._ Nizar swallows. “I refuse to forget you.”

Kanza releases her hold on his neck and glides out onto his shoulder, rearing up to look at the portraits before she hisses her own greeting. Elfric’s eyes light up as he responds in Parseltongue. “ _Hello, Kanza! Father, you’d best not have forgotten this_!”

“ _No, I haven’t_.” Nizar smiles at them. “ _Brice_?”

Brice looks like he wants to weep. “ _Parseltongue never changes_.”

“ _No, and thank the gods for small favors_.”

Kanza’s tongue darts out. “ _I miss them_.”

“ _So do I. Wait, you’re not trapped here, are you_?” Nizar asks in sudden fear.

“ _Us? No, we’re just portraits. We go where we please_ ,” Galiena assures him.

“ _We will try to get better at English, Father. It really makes people unhappy when they hear Parseltongue these days. Cowards_ ,” Elfric spits.

“ _Be nice. The current terror of the British isles is a Parselmouth cousin of yours_.”

“ _Oh. Him_.” Brice frowns in disapproval. “ _We’re aware. Such a blowhard_.”

“ _We’re going to go warn the other portraits to expect a lot of hissing in the days to come_ ,” Galiena says. “ _Most of them still understand Old English. It shouldn’t be that hard for you to pick up on it again. You said it was the easiest language of them all to learn the first time._ ”

“ _I’ll keep that in mind_.” Nizar watches they depart, trying not to feel bereft. They are only portraits; his children are long dead. He wonders if they knew what foolishness he’d agreed to. He wonders what Salazar said to convince him it was necessary.

Nizar glances around the room again. He raised his children in these rooms, but it’s obvious they’d all gone on to their own quarters or dwellings. The furniture is meant for one person, not many.

“Brice was already dead.” Nizar sits down hard on the rug-covered floor. He remembers that now. Brice died at the hands of a magician who’d used foul blood magic to turn an entire village full of people into slaves. Brice won, defeating his enemy, but succumbed to the injuries he received during that magical battle.

Elfric went south to see about collecting students from England. Beyond that, he can’t yet recall. Galiena married and settled in to become a scribe of some renown while her kind-hearted husband handled the raising of their children. If Nizar has descendants at all, it will be from that line; Elfric had been entirely uninterested in marriage or dalliances of any sort.

He can feel magic beneath his hands; the rug is all but saturated by a Preservation Charm. If that was protected, it’s a safe wager that everything else is, too.

Nizar gets up from the floor and forces himself to continue exploring. On the old table is a charmed and large rock that is warm to the touch. “Look what I found, dearest.”

Kanza glides down his arm and settles on the stone, scenting it. “ _It no longer smells of serpent. I will fix that_.”

“ _I’m certain you will_.” Nizar glances over at the sofa, recalls what the small square tables in Severus’s quarters look like, and conjures one to place next to the sofa, though the wood matches what it sits next to. “ _Hold tight. I’m relocating you_.”

Kanza hisses with laughing glee as she rides her original warming stone to its new pride of place on the conjured table. “ _That was fun. Not as much fun as exploring with you, but fun_!” She peers over the rock’s edge. “ _My very own table. You spoil me, favorite_.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Nizar leaves her to explore both rock and the new table. He peers into the garderobe—the bathroom—and discovers that it’s also been updated to modern standards. He still suspects house-elves, given what they’ve said to him about knowing his identity.

The magical cycling privy box that kept the stench out has been replaced with a commode. He’d been so happy last night to have gathered enough context over the years to know exactly what a flush toilet was when he found the first example. The original freestanding copper tub has been replaced with a true tiled bathtub that’s nearly large enough to hold two people comfortably. The table that held basin and pitcher of water is now an inset sink with plumbing and a mirror. There are shelves with more of those gigantic new towels, though on another shelf are his original toiletries. Excellent; he desperately wants to _shave_ in the morning.

The far side of the sitting room has a short hallway with an intersection of three doors. He pushes open the one on the right, which was once Elfric and Brice’s shared sleeping chamber. When they moved out, it became his personal office so he could hide from his students. He’d left a trundle bed under a padded bench in case of visitors. He’d had a few of those. Often it was Godric, when he was too far gone into his cups and all but planting his face on Nizar’s table. The bench has been replaced by a sofa, just like the sitting room, but a bed on wheels hides beneath it. The cushions on this one are a smoky grey with blue and silver lurking in the fabric.

Nizar touches one of the bound books on the shelf and feels yet more preservation magic beneath his fingers. He’s starting to suspect that everything that could be obliterated by the centuries was treated to it, and that house-elves are once again responsible. None of the magic feels familiar enough to suspect himself, Salazar, or the others. They would have been thinking more of Hogwarts’ magic, which naturally preserves the paintings and books within its walls.

He abandons the office and pushes open the central door, which held his own sleeping chamber. The faint smell of beeswax enters his nose, and some brittle part of mind begins to relax. He loves honeybees, which bear their own magic and don’t mind sharing what they make with it. He walks into the room, glancing down at the Persian rug on the floor that still tingles beneath the soles of his boots with the magic that wove it.

Sitting down on the bed reveals that the house-elves truly didn’t know when to stop, but he doesn’t mind. Instead of bound ticking, he’s sitting on that thick material encased in soft cloth, just like what he’d slept on last night. Over that are sheets of cotton that were beaten soft over the years. His, definitely; he’d dyed them a deep grey the color of winter sky because it tended to reflect the least amount of extra colors. The frame is the same well-turned ash, polished and protected by the beeswax that greeted him in the doorway.

The elves matched a freestanding wardrobe and a chest of drawers to the ash. Both hold all the clothing he’d owned in 1017, leaving the chest at the foot of his bed empty but for a spare pair of boots. More Preservation magic sings beneath his hands, along with liberal helpings of fresh lavender to keep the blasted moths out. “Nearly a thousand years, and magic still won’t keep those fluttering little bastards at bay,” Nizar murmurs.

He glances through drawers and the wardrobe, bemused by the sight of unharmed Old Road silk, tunics, long vests, shirts, robes, truis, socks, braies, gloves, and a light silk-blended wool cloak with a hood for spring or fall storms. There is also a hooded woolen cloak meant for cold winter rain. In the East he’d found loose full-length silk truis, much closer to modern trousers, that tied closed at the waist. The matching shirts are cuffed tightly at the wrist. They’re meant to be worn as the bottom layer for outdoor clothing; Nizar just loves having them to sleep in.

He won’t have all of it retailored, not when this is what Nizar finds familiar. In the meantime, at least he has something to wear. The last drawer he glances at and slides it closed. He won’t get rid of that, either, but he will likely not have much use for leather armor.

Nizar leaves the bedroom open, the better for soothing beeswax to spread throughout his quarters, and then enters the room which once held Galiena’s bedchamber. It became storage after her wedding, and hosts blank parchment in flat and rolled form, the rarer rolls of paper, all of which waits to become letters or books. Did he write a book? That would be nice to know. If it survived the years, he wonders if anyone bothered to translate it.

Four portraits hang on the wall. Each has a muted black background with other hues swimming in the layers of paint. Four empty frames: Godric, Helga, Rowena, and Salazar, perhaps? He wonders where they are. Hogwarts portraits seem to be gossipy painted biddies, so they have to know he’s here.

The only other things in the room at the moment is another armchair and a large oak trunk, gifted to him by a friend who’d come into more money than he knew what to do with. That had been…he can’t remember. Dammit.

Nizar kneels down in front of it, running his hands over the wood. “Please tell me I was smart enough to leave myself a letter. Please.” Even if it’s not legible, those memories will come back, and they _are_ coming back. He planned for contingencies; he might also have planned for this.

The lock is engaged, but falls open at Nizar’s touch. He throws back the lid in some vain hope that it will spark more memory other than the pathetic bits floating around in his head. Sitting on the top is a simple-framed painting of a white owl. “Oh, hello. Aren’t you gorgeous?”

The owl blinks at him before letting out a gentle hooted greeting. “No, sorry, I don’t speak owl.” Nizar turns the owl’s frame around in his hands. “No nameplate. Of course not. That would be easy, wouldn’t it?” The owl hoots again; even to Nizar, the owl sounds irritated.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re dealing with a partial amnesiac ex-portrait,” Nizar tells the owl. He puts her painting aside, propping it against the wall. If someone left him in a trunk for untold years, he’d be irritable, too.

The portrait was hiding a tightly rolled black-dyed fur cloak, backed by sturdy wool that can soak up all the snow it likes while still keeping Nizar warm. He just isn’t sure why that cloak would be in the trunk when the rest of his clothing was properly stored in that wardrobe. He lifts it up, curious, and a wand falls out of its hiding place in the fur to land on the floor with an accusatory clatter.

Nizar shakes his head and drapes the cloak over the trunk lid before bending down to pick up the wand. It’s varnished with a wooden dye, so he has no idea what type of tree it’s made from. He points it and finds it doesn’t feel right in his hand, not like his cherry wand.

 _Think, dammit_ , Nizar tells himself. He and Salazar carried twin wands. Not this varnished one, but the cherry with its carved runes. They were granted those wands in 996. This must be the wand he held before that time, even if he still can’t remember it.

He puts the wand atop the cloak and finds a blade next, sheathed in leather decorated with Futhorc runes. The black hilt feels familiar, and when he draws forth the seax, he remembers it. His first blade purchase on the isle, crafted by an excellent blacksmith working out of London. Kanza’s mother made certain that it’s far deadlier than it looks. At least if he needs a knife for mundane reasons, he came out of the portrait with the blade in his boot still in place.

Nizar turns the sheath around so the runes make sense. _Guardian_. That is…less than useful.

He sheathes the seax and puts it with the wand and cloak. The next layer of the trunk holds correspondence from his family, friends, Salazar—so much, from so many. He’ll need to be able to read some of the old languages again to know what each missive says. There is also a scroll still bearing an unbroken wax green Deslizarse seal, but what Nizar’s hands find first is the carefully composed and flattened sheet of parchment that recorded Brice’s death. Nizar traces his fingers over the Old English letters and the words come to him:

_Gilbert Brice deSlizarse of Eidyn Buhr, respected Magician and Warrior in the Kingdom of Alba, died of injuries received during a battle to defeat the terrible evil of one using foul magic to enslave the defenceless. Gilbert Brice deSlizarse is to be entombed in Eidyn Buhr with full honors granted to a warrior on 14 th November, this year of our lord 1,012._

Nizar gently puts the record of death back in with the rest of the correspondence. The wand and seax also go back inside, though he bundles the cloak under his arm to join the rest of his things in the wardrobe.

He shuts the trunk, his eyes burning with tears he refuses to let fall. Perhaps there are answers lurking within those papers, like that scroll with its unbroken seal, but Nizar knows how much he can bear in one evening.

He directs his attention back to the owl’s painting, which is gazing up at him expectantly. “You need to be properly hung, not left in a trunk. Would you mind remaining in my quarters until I remember who you are? I’ll find a painting of something outdoors for you to swap into if things are too dull.”

The owl hoots in what Nizar thinks is agreement. He brings her portrait out into the sitting room, realizes he doesn’t have much wall space, and mounts the painting to the left of his sitting room window. The painting for her to explore will be placed on the other side of the window. He’ll have to find something they both like.

He goes back to his bedroom and opens the wardrobe long enough to hang the fur cloak inside next to a heavy wool cloak that’s meant for winter rain rather than snowfall. That done, Nizar swaps the _S_ on his door and opens it again. Beyond the doorway is the office he’d cobbled together during twenty-five years of teaching. He knows this room, but his memories of life are so garbled that someone could have inverted the room’s entire contents and he wouldn’t know.

There is still an illuminated manuscript lying open on his desk. It is not Christian, but Pictish in nature, and the figures on the page are still roaming up and down their assigned decorative spaces. He knows he spoke and read Pictish. He can’t remember a word of it.

He goes around his slanted desk, ignoring the wooden chair behind it, and peers at the mirror hanging on the wall. He allows instinct to carry him when knowledge fails, breathing on the glass and saying, “Receiving Hall.”

The image becomes that of the Receiving Hall as it must be at the moment, filled with students in black robes, their collars marked by the four differing House colors. Nizar knows every Slytherin at the table, and it doesn’t make him happy to see that they are all holding themselves aloof from the other Houses, or taunting someone at another table. He knows it’s necessary; it’s another step in the deception his friend has needed to practice. He can still find their behavior to be in poor taste and bad manners.

Nizar glances up at a long table which must host Hogwarts’ teachers. There is Severus, a frown line between his eyes. Dumbledore is back in one of those eye-blinding robes, the utter horror. Many magicians are seated at that table, but Nizar only recognizes one of them as being of his House.

“Oh, that explains so much about yon ginger’s attitude,” Nizar mutters. There are nineteen teachers at the table, and only _one_ is a Slytherin. Severus told him he was the only one, yes, but that was 1982. It’s now late in 1995. Why has that lack not been rectified? Dumbledore had no idea they were suddenly going to gain a second, literal Slytherin. Nizar is going to have words with that spangled fiend, _after_ he begs the man to please change his bloody robes.

Nizar blows on the silver-backed glass again. “Salazar’s quarters.” That gives him nothing but darkness. Dammit. “Rowena’s quarters.” Darkness. “Helga’s home.” That gets him an intriguing image of a barrel, but nothing else. Asking his mirror for Godric’s home gets him the Headmaster’s tower, which is…well, actually, that explains a lot. If Salazar left on some mad quest to figure out how to help the sibling that was magically locked into a painting, Godric was the best choice for ultimately running the school. Rowena and Helga both liked being teachers more than they liked dealing with the local tribal heads, kings, or the associated irritating nobility.

“Fuck.” Nizar collapses into the worn wooden chair, giggling like he’s lost his mind. “I can’t read anything in this room!” He knows he could once speak or read Norn, Gaelic, Cumbric, Pictish, _franceis_ , and modern English’s Germanic precursor they now call Old English, but he doesn’t remember them—none of them! The books in his painting had updated themselves with the language, just as his speaking had updated itself with the centuries of change until modern English became standard. “I’m probably lucky I know enough Latin to cast a decent spell,” he says, still laughing into his hands.

Nizar grabs a random book from his shelf, all of them pristine from being held in layers of preservation magic, and opens it. That is definitely Cumbric, not to be mistaken for Cumbrian—damned melting pot of an island and its incessant input of new languages. The fact that English as a language stabilized at all is probably due to divine intervention.

The ink in the pot is dried flakes; the quill next to it is fine, if in need of sharpening. Nizar picks it up in his hands. How long since he wrote anything down? He’d written of things while in his portrait, but all of that was destroyed when the Preservation Charm ended.

Nizar puts down the book, frowning. He plans for contingencies like he breathes. He draws his wand from his sleeve, running his fingers along the Futhorc rune patterning as he thinks. “Please tell me I was smart. Please,” he whispers, and then points his wand at the shelves. “ _Arcesse libri Metamorphmagi_!”

Four books on the shelves rattle in place, but at least they don’t fly out to swat him for the abrupt Summons. Nizar grabs them all and sits down at his slanted table. All four bound books are red. All are the same size. All are bound by the same material. Nizar opens each one to its first page with text, and is confronted by Pictish, Cumbric, bloody French…and modern English.

Nizar puts his head down on his desk. “I was smart. Oh, I was smart. An updating spell by duplication of material, leaving the original untouched.” Then he sits back up. “Yes! Finally, I did something that wasn’t ludicrous today! Also, dear gods, how did anyone forget that Metamorphmagi is a form of magic? It’s in the fucking name!” He puts the Cumbric, Pictish, and French copies back onto the shelf while holding onto the English version. “ _Metamorph magician! Why are people stupid, Kanza_?”

“ _Is that rhetorical_?” she asks.

“ _Probably. It usually is, yes_?” 


	7. Detrimental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But I don't want to go among mad people!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for the weekend.

Nizar takes another brief look around his office before he goes back out into the classroom, opens the main door, and props it open. He is immediately assailed by three different house-elves. “Uh—hello?”

“There is the Master Slytherin!” one of them gasps, and flops over in relief.

“We is being looking for you everywhere!” another says, panting.

“I’ve been here for perhaps an hour, at most,” Nizar says, baffled.

“You has never seen the Bloody Bat in a mood!” the third declares.

“Yes, actually, I have. It’s entertaining. Go tell him where I am, please; I’m leaving the door open this time.” One of the elves disappears, leaving Nizar with two. “This is going to be the new Defence classroom. Could you perhaps find at least the bare minimum of furniture for it?” The second elf vanishes, leaving him with one. “All right, now what is it?”

The elf peers up at him with bulbous green eyes. “You has missed dinner.”

“I’ve actually missed a lot,” Nizar counters. “You’re not going to leave until I accept dinner, are you?”

“Matron Poppy is scarier than the Bloody Bat,” the elf says.

“Healers often are terrifying.” Nizar smiles. “Dinner is fine, but please keep it light—by _human_ terms, thank you, not house-elf terms.” The elf looks miffed at being caught before it can try to bury Nizar in a six-course meal before he disappears.

By the time he’s been tracked down by Severus, he has a desk, a chair, and probably inhaled dinner at a pace that alarmed the house-elves, given that the dinner tray was removed and a tea tray left in its place. He’s three pages into the book, and almost—almost—feels like he remembers one of his own fucking specialties.

“I take it you found your classroom. On the seventh floor. Where a door has never existed before.”

Nizar glances up at Severus. “And I have no idea who to blame for hiding it, either. Come in! I did something smart!”

“You vanished at the beginning of dinner,” Severus replies dryly.

“I _literally_ vanished,” Nizar corrects him cheerfully. “Useful charm, much better than that pathetic Disillusionment bit that’s in those stupid fucking books you showed me earlier.”

Severus doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “Leaving aside your disappearance: what did you do that was intelligent?”

Nizar holds up the book. “Updating duplication spell. I can read one of every four books in my office! That means I can probably bring Cumbric back from the dead if I reverse-translate it correctly. Speaking of which, want to learn to become a Metamorphmagus?”

Severus holds up one hand. “Please restrain yourself to one intriguing revelation per minute. No, I do not wish to become a Metamorphmagus. Transfiguration is not my specialty unless I’m causing it with potions ingredients.”

“You got Os in Transfiguration, you liar,” Nizar mutters. He turns the page before glancing down at his fingers, concentrating. His nails sharpen to points before he lets the bit of magic go again. “Hah! Salazar, you’re an idiot. I am going to find a spare painting of him to hang in here; I reserve the right to say it to him at least once a day.”

Severus seems resigned. “Not in front of the students.”

“Why not? Severus, they’re fucking terrified of me!” Nizar puts the book down so he can glare at the idiot Head of his brother’s House. “And for no reason at all other than the truth of my family name. Perhaps it would do the lot of them some good to come to regard Salazar as a human being instead of a terrifying myth! I have no idea where the terrifying bit came from, either. Godric was the one who broke things if he had three goblets too many of wine.”

“I’ve always said that Gryffindors were an ill-mannered, chaotic bunch of cretins,” Severus says.

“No, you just had too many run-ins with three Gryffindors who decided it was an excellent idea. You do seem to like to conveniently forget that your best friend was also one of your favorite annoying and useless Gryffindors.”

“If anyone else said that to me, I would hex them into atoms,” Severus hisses.

Nizar smiles. “I’m aware. Go ahead and try. Your wand will not thank you for it.”

Severus leans back. “Is that a terrible joke, or a terrible threat?”

“It could always be both—but no, it’s a truth of this castle’s magic. You’re not properly tied into it, and I am. Thus, if you raise a wand against me, Hogwarts is going to obliterate your wand, and if you’re really lucky, she won’t take your wand hand with it.” Nizar frowns. “Come to think of it, your Headmaster isn’t properly tied in, either. I know I’ve forgotten quite a bit, but no one else has the excuse of being a damned painting for nine centuries. People write these things down for a reason!”

A few minutes of silence followed that declaration. Nizar is drawn right back into the book; it’s reminding him of quite a bit, and he hopes the rest of his library is this useful. Then Severus finally ventures, “This _tying in_. Can you tell me more?”

Nizar closes the book. “You’re the Head of Slytherin House. You should be tied into the school in such a way that you know what’s going on within the House’s confines at all times, for given levels of propriety and not needing to know literally everything.” Nizar says. “Say Draco was stupid enough to punch Theodore again in the Common Room. You would know. If Draco were stupid enough to do something intimate with Theodore in the Common Room, you would _not_ know, and believe me, it took a while to work out those details so that none of us interrupted things we never wanted to witness in the first place. The Headmaster should have that awareness of the rest of the school and grounds. Dumbledore has part of it; I could tell that he heard what I did earlier this morning. He doesn’t hear it to the same extent, though, else he would have known the first time he stepped foot in that classroom after Riddle left that something was not as it should be.”

“That sounds as if it would be exceptionally useful.”

“It is.” Nizar feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “It was.”

“Nizar?”

Nizar looks at Severus. “Do you recall what I once told you—that we had non-magical workers in the castle before there was an incident in which one harmed a student?”

“You said it caused their death, if I remember correctly,” Severus replies.

“It wasn’t a single student. Two girls. Two best friends.” Nizar feels his nails bite in his palms and uncurls his hands. At least he hadn’t left his nails pointed, or he would be bleeding right now. “I began teaching in this school when I was seventeen. I earned my title because I’m the one who found him. He’d bashed one over the head and told the other to behave and they wouldn’t be harmed. She was ten years old and terrified. She believed him. He’d killed her and moved on to his second victim before I got there. There was not much left of him afterwards.”

“I see.”

“Fortunately, no, you didn’t see the aftermath of that, and neither did she. I’m still older than you by seven years, or by nine hundred eighty-five years, whichever you prefer, so I’d like it to be a few more days before the shine wears off and reveals the tarnish beneath, thank you,” Nizar responds. “When Ætherell of York came to Hogwarts to claim justice for his son’s death, I delivered his son’s remains to him personally in a chamber pot, used a visual memory charm to reveal what his son had done, and asked if he was still brave enough to demand justice.

“Ætherell was wise enough to say no. He was not wise enough to say yes when I said that he owed the girl justice for what his offspring had done.” Nizar lets out a brief, humorless laugh. “So much for that bloodline. Not that there were any of them left at that point aside from those two. They’d gotten into some very bad habits. The Black family everyone is in such terror of is fairly tame in comparison.”

“A non-magical son with a wizarding parent?” Severus asks.

“It was more accepted back then that not everyone was magical, and you weren’t going to be ejected from a family for being one sort while everyone else was the other. So, yes—technically, I defeated my first Dark magician at age seventeen. Salazar was so annoyed; I beat out his previous accomplishment by an entire year. I told him that at least I wasn’t banned from the entire Kingdom of León but for a single week per year for killing off an evil magical prince. Salazar was enough of a prick to point out that I’d just offed a magical duke, and York would not be welcoming me back anytime soon.”

Nizar glances up just in time to see Severus fighting a smile. “It’s not against the law to be happy about something.”

“Consider it practice,” Severus says. “If I can keep this dour mask in place when you are being genuinely entertaining, then I can also do it when it might be necessary to remain alive.”

Nizar scowls. “I can’t decide if I’m thrilled that you find me entertaining, or if I want to beat you to death with this book for being so bloody defeatist.”

“I consider it being realistic,” Severus counters.

“No, it’s called stupidity,” Nizar replies. “A wise man plans on how to survive, not on how to die with the least amount of fuss.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Choosing the fastest path towards death?” Severus asks.

“YES!” Nizar shouts, incensed. “I’ve been watching you choose it since you were fifteen, you great bleeding idiot! Fortunately for us both, you are quite bad at ending up dead!”

“Ah.” Severus is very good at remaining implacable in the face of someone else’s temper. “Perhaps I still need to practice more.”

Nizar grinds his teeth before he slams his wand down onto the desk. “Yes. You should. Right now.”

Severus’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“You want more practice. I want you significantly less dead. This is a Defence classroom by specific design. Let’s find out how likely we are to get our respective wishes.”

Severus crosses his arms. “You just warned me what would happen if I raised a wand against you.”

“At least you’re already listening. That’s a good start.” Nizar gestures with his wand to slam the door shut. “This is now a place of learning. You can raise your wand against me all you like,” he says, standing up and kicking aside three of the new chairs to clear out an available space. “Do hurry up, or this will take all night.”

“The innuendo is not actually helpful,” Severus mutters as he gets to his feet. “I have no wish to hurt you.”

“You don’t even know if it’s possible.”

“You said I can raise a wand against you. What is to actually stop either of us from hurting each other?” Severus asks after he takes his wand from his sleeve.

“Hurt? Oh, I didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt.” Nizar grins. “The Killing Curse will not kill anyone in this room, no matter the strength used to cast it, but you’ll know it has struck you. A hex or a jinx that might cause fatal damage will be repelled by the protective magic in the room, though you will most certainly know that had been real life, you would be very, very dead. A spell that would cause permanent damage will behave similarly. You may literally do your absolute worst, and I might have to knit a few bones. Maybe.”

Nizar lifts his wand. “Prove me right.”

Severus does not disappoint him. Nizar is glad to see the man refusing to hold back, but holy gods, Nizar has to learn that severing spell. That poor chair will never be the same, no matter what repairing charms are used on it. Severus’s form is fluid, non-verbal, and definitely the wand work of a man used to destroying things on a regular basis. “When the hell did you have a chance to practice this? 1981 was quite a while ago,” Nizar observes, smiling over the point of his wand as they keep circling the room.

“I didn’t,” Severus replies.

“I hope they deserved what they got,” Nizar says in response to that blatant lie, and ducks a blasting hex that would have left him with one hell of a migraine.

“Temper,” Nizar says, and turns the floor beneath Severus’s feet to ice. Someone has not been teaching weather charms properly; Severus actually slides and falls before he performs a wandless spell that flings a chair at Nizar. He lifts his arm and catches hardwood on a weak _Protego_ shield, cast too late to do much good. “Better!”

“I just broke your bloody arm!”

“ _Good_!” Nizar yells back. “It only took you a fucking half-hour to manage something detrimental!”

“You’re a lunatic!”

Nizar gives it another ten minutes before he has to give up because his head is spinning. “I’ll yield. Just stop throwing chairs at me.”

“It’s called survival,” Severus retorts, but he’s lowering his wand.

“Excellent.” Nizar slides down the wall until he’s seated on the floor. “That’s a lot better than lying down beneath a rail train in dainty repose.”

Severus snorts out a laugh and joins him. “Your arm is still broken.”

“You’re bleeding,” Nizar notes, resting his left arm against his chest. “That was fun!”

Severus looks at him from the corner of his eye. “I see. You were Hogwarts’ first formal instructor of Defence because you’re insane.”

“Insane people are imaginative. Imaginative use of your circumstances means you live to fight another day.”

Severus makes a faint sound of agreement. “I don’t think this is what Poppy had in mind when she said you should ease your way back into using magic.”

Nizar regards the partially destroyed classroom. “Oh. Well. I probably shouldn’t inform her that this _was_ easing my way back into things. Healers frown on that.”

“What sort of man are you, Nizar?” Severus asks after a minute of silence.

“You’ve known me since you were eleven years old, Severus. You know the answer to that question.”

“No. I knew a portrait so desperate for company that he would speak to the lowest of the low in his brother’s House.”

Nizar scowls at Severus. “Are you—are you impugning my sense of taste?”

“There were definitely more intriguing options at the time,” Severus says.

“No, there were a number of blighters with an inflated sense of self-importance.” Nizar keeps glaring at him. “I have enough self-importance for an entire room. I don’t need to be friends with people who will attempt to blow smoke up my backside just to inflate that sense of self-worth. Also, stop being stupid. It doesn’t suit you at all. It never did.”

Severus tilts his head in a way that causes his hair to fall forward, hiding his face. “January. In 1977. I wish you’d asked me to stay.”

Nizar tries not to wince. “Would you have, if I’d asked?”

Severus sighs. “No, but…it would still have been nice to hear the words.”

“Nobody stays behind for the sake of a portrait,” Nizar murmurs. “You’re right, though. I’m sorry—I should have asked you to stay. Come on. I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’re going to bribe me?” Severus asks, but does follow Nizar into his office. Nizar mends the two fractures in his arm along the way, casting the healing spells without a word needed. He’s heard what that newfangled Skele-Gro Potion is supposed to taste like. No, thank you; not ever.

“I always thought books made excellent bribes.” Nizar taps his fingers along his wand for a moment, thinking. No particular title is occurring to him. “ _Arcesse potionem-factio libro_.” Four books bound in green-stained leather rock in place. Nizar picks them up, flipping through the languages—Cumbric, Old English, French, and then modern English—before he places the modern English copy into Severus’s hands.

The look Severus gives him is the epitome of a suspicious Slytherin. Then he opens it and makes it through four pages of text before he halts mid-motion. “Nizar.”

“What? If it’s a spell for impotency, you don’t get to blame me. Not my work.” At the very least, it’s not his handwriting. It looks familiar, but the book is unsigned.

“No, it isn’t that. I got three potions into this book before I encountered something I’ve never heard of before.” Severus turns a few more pages. “And so are the next six potions.”

“Have fun?” Nizar offers. “I don’t actually remember what’s in there. If you kill anyone with something in that book, I have no idea where you discovered it.”

“I do like how you assume I’ll use something within these pages to kill someone,” Severus replies in a dry voice.

Nizar rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who won’t stop spying on my idiot great-grandnephew. Speaking of terrible people: how many of our House did Umbridge use that fucking quill on?”

“Four,” Severus answers as he closes the book. “Two fifth-years and two third-years. The Ravenclaws ignored her unless she resorted to direct insults, so they only have two students. The Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs were hit hardest. Fourteen Gryffindors and eight Hufflepuffs.”

“This is really not making me want her any less dead,” Nizar says, walking out of his office and shutting the door once Severus has joined him in the classroom. “I do hope Dumbledore isn’t expecting me to use that office downstairs.”

“Probably not.” Severus tucks the book into his robes before he asks, “Did you find your living quarters?” Nizar nods. “Is it too much to ask to see them? I’m curious as to where a portrait lived before the canvas.”

“That would be fair, wouldn’t it?” Nizar murmurs. “I’ve seen yours.” He clears his throat, but that doesn’t stop his eyes from burning. “Going into those rooms reminded me of a lot of things I’d forgotten entirely, Severus, and some of it is painful. You’ll see them, I promise, just…not tonight. Please.”

Severus watches as Kanza glides out onto Nizar’s shoulder. “I won’t push, but it seems she has an opinion.”

“Do you, dearest?”

Kanza nods. “ _I made him take me with him for a short time while you slept. He was brewing today. It was pleasing_.”

Nizar smiles. “You had a guest, and she got to watch you brew. She likes that, though she was probably irritated that you couldn’t understand her suggestions.”

“It’s bloody Essence of Dittany,” Severus replies. “It isn’t complicated enough to require suggestions of any sort.”

“Did you remember the lemon balm oil?” Nizar asks.

Severus frowns at him. “Why would I add lemon balm oil to Essence of Dittany?”

Nizar grins. “No reason.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “If I show you my office, will you inform me as to why you think it’s a useful addition?”

“Certainly!” Nizar tucks his book into his robe pocket and tries not to bounce on his toes.

“It isn’t that exciting,” Severus says dryly.

“Severus, it’s something _new_ ,” Nizar replies. “It really is that exciting.”

Severus seems to hesitate before nodding. “Yes. I suppose it would be.”

Nizar pauses before he shuts the classroom door behind them. “You may disappear all you like,” Nizar tells the door sternly, “but when I come up here, you will show yourself at once, or we will have words, and those words will involve me removing your useless magical self even if I have to put a hole in the wall to do it.”

Severus regards Nizar curiously as the door vanishes when it’s shut. “Do you threaten everything you encounter?”

“Only when it’s useful.”

Severus’s office is in the dungeons, near the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room but not close enough to be a hint. The inside is a large open space that still manages to be dark and dim, brightened only by a few scattered torches. “It’s charming,” Nizar says.

“That is not the first thing most say when confronted by this space.”

Nizar wanders over to the shelves, his attention caught by all of the stoppered glass bottles. Each is marked by Severus’s handwriting, and all but hum with the magic of hundreds of different Preservation Charms. The floor space is open but for a long table set up with two different cauldrons and a complicated distillery between them. The other table has a pile of scrolls held in place by a set of stone bookends, a stack of books, and a quill standing in a holder next to a sealed inkpot. “I was being honest. I don’t recall what this room was used for originally.” He smiles. “It’s very _you_ , Severus.”

Severus gives him a bewildered look. “You don’t mean that as an insult.”

“What?” Nizar stares at him. “Why would I—unless I’m missing something?”

“No.” Severus slowly shakes his head. “My preferences are considered undesirable.”

“Fuck someone else’s preferences. You’re the person who has to work in this room,” Nizar says. “That means you should like staring at it.”

Severus turns away and changes the subject. “Your brother didn’t reside or work in the dungeons?”

“No. Don’t get me wrong, Salazar loved a good cavern. The family home in Castile was built over fairly extensive Roman catacombs from the fourth or fifth century. But when it came to where he lived or worked, he preferred sunlight. His classroom was on the third floor, near the library. He lived nearby at first, but…” Nizar trails off. “I can’t remember why, but he moved out of those quarters. He lived on the fourth floor afterwards.”

“Helga Hufflepuff?”

“Helga loved being underground.” Nizar peers down into a much-reduced cauldron full of Dittany. “And it’s not Hufflepuff, it’s Hugðilepuf, a combination of Norse, Latin, and Old English. She chose it herself when she rejected her father’s name.”

“I can see how that would have been mauled by the passing centuries.” Severus selects one of the smaller glass bottles and approaches the table. “What does it mean?”

“Quick-thought, fierce defence.” Nizar smiles. “Gods, I must have been so young when she told me that the first time.”

“You aren’t certain?”

“I can’t remember how old I was, but _she_ was young,” Nizar answers. “I was seven years younger than Helga, and she was twenty-two in 990.”

Severus eyes him. “Twenty-two?”

“Salazar was twenty,” Nizar points out, amused when Severus seems baffled by that.

“You never once said that I might be too young to be Head of our House.” Severus puts a bottle labeled _Lemon Balm Oil_ onto the table. “Pay up.”

Nizar smiles. “Lemon balm has two qualities that make it an exceptional boost for Essence of Dittany.”

“Two.” Severus frowns in thought. Then he shouts and starts swearing under his breath.

Nizar’s smile widens. “That’s very similar to what Salazar said at the time, too.”

“That is because, in hindsight, it’s fucking obvious!” Severus glares at him. “You’re not allowed to say you are terrible at potions. Ever.”

“I am, though. I might have good ideas from time to time, but that’s not the same thing as being good at it _all_ the time.”

Severus doesn’t look convinced. “This has been reducing for nearly ten hours, and was originally a full cauldron.”

“If you can figure out those two qualities, you know how much to add.”

“Breaking the bargain already?” Severus asks in a voice that is like smoke.

Nizar isn’t allowed to make an undignified sound in response. He will not. He also has to put aside some very specific realizations to contend with later.

“You only bargained for why, not how,” Nizar reminds him, glad that he sounds normal. “I gave you Helga’s true name, told you where my brother used to live and work, and complimented your office.”

Severus’s eyes narrow. “Very well. At least tell me if I’m wrong before I add too much. I can’t afford to ruin this batch.”

“Only as long as you continue our semi-nightly tradition,” Nizar counters.

“Tradition?” Severus asks in genuine confusion.

“You’ve spent many nights since 1982 having a night cap in front of my portrait.” Nizar spreads his arms. “I’m right here. You owe me so much alcohol, Severus Snape.”

Severus’s expression breaks into a wide smile before he lowers his head, his hair drifting forward to partially mask the expression. “Agreed.”

Nizar watches as Severus gets a glass pipette and allows five drops of lemon balm oil to fall into the reduced Dittany. Then Severus puts it aside, head cocked as if to listen; a moment later he’s removing a glass stirring rod and replacing it with a bronze to stir in the oil.

Severus pauses again before he removes the stirring rod and places it aside with the glass one. “Lemon balm oil changed an inflammatory potion into an anti-inflammatory.”

“Excellent!”

Severus gives him an accusatory look. “You didn’t say it would do that!”

“Technically, I didn’t remember it would do that,” Nizar replies. “I think it’s a neat side effect. Did I earn a drink?”

“I still have to bottle this,” Severus mutters.

Nizar estimates the liquid left in the cauldron and glances over at several rows of empty bottles before he points at one. Severus glances at it and nods; Nizar fetches it while Severus sets up the cauldron’s contents to go through a sieve to remove the plant matter. When that’s done, Nizar looks at Severus again expectantly.

Severus rolls his eyes as he puts a stopper in a large bottle full of Essence of Dittany. “I really hope I don’t need all of this in a single school term…and yes, you earned it. Ages ago. Come on.”

Nizar nods, opens the door, and nearly walks face-first into Blaise Zabini. “Blaise? What are you doing here?”

Blaise sighs and holds out his hand, which is wrapped in a white handkerchief stained with blood. “To see Professor Snape, sir.”

“Mister Zabini.” Severus peers down at the young man’s hand. “It won’t stop bleeding?”

Blaise shakes his head. “No, sir. I thought maybe you would know what to do about it. I’m running out of handkerchiefs.”

“Blood quill?” Nizar asks as Severus curses under his breath. Blaise nods. “I know how.”

“You do?” Blaise and Severus ask at the same time.

Nizar lets out an amused snort. “Seriously, yes, and I really need to get into the habit of calling you all by your last names, Mister Zabini. Go sit in that chair.”

Severus tilts his head down near Nizar’s ear as Blaise takes a seat in a black leather armchair close to Severus’s desk. “All I’ve read about the damned quills say that the wound will continue to bleed until the named punishment is completed. She sent him away with it incomplete, and now it and the quill are inaccessible.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone put that quill to paper again, anyway.” Nizar draws his wand. “Come on. It might never be high on your list of favorite bits of magic, but I can show you how to make this stop.”

Nizar kneels down next to Blaise. “Take off the handkerchief.” When Blaise does so, Nizar takes his hand, holding onto Blaise’s fingers as he rests his wand on the back of the young man’s hand, just below the letters starting to well up with blood. “What the quill does is bury magic in the skin of the hand that holds it. That magic is expunged by writing, but it can also be drawn out.”

Severus and Blaise both watch in curiosity and fascination as Nizar traces along Blaise’s skin with the tip of his wand, pulling each bit of magic from the individual letters before tossing it aside. It appears as dirty brown vapor in the air before it fades away.

Blaise peers down at his hand when Nizar is done, using his handkerchief to wipe away the last of the blood. “Wow, sir. That’s amazing.”

“That is blood magic—the proper sort, not the torture of a blood quill or other terrible things,” Nizar says. “And yes, you’ll want to keep that in mind for class.”

“Damn straight I will, sir,” Blaise says, and winces. “I should maybe not swear in front of you now, right?”

Nizar grins at him as Severus returns with the lemon balm-infused Essence of Dittany. “Mister Zabini, as long as you keep it out of the classroom and mind your manners in public, I don’t care.”

Severus uses a syringe-based pipette to treat Blaise’s scars. “The schedule for repeating this is still the same,” he tells Blaise. “And will also require an extra day, thanks to Umbridge’s nonsense. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t, sir.” Blaise stands up and follows Nizar to the door. “Good night!”

“Oh, the rumors,” Nizar says under his breath.

“I’m sure they will be entertaining to hear.” Severus leads them out of his office before he shuts and locks the door.

Nizar pays more attention this time as they walk down the corridor and turn to the final section that leads to Severus’s quarters. “Wait. We’re deep in the dungeons, near the Common Room. How was a Gryffindor student getting down here so often to open the Chamber without being noticed?”

Severus frowns. “The entrance to the Chamber isn’t down here. It’s on the second floor, along a bank of sinks in the girl’s bathroom.”

“That isn’t the original entrance.” Nizar tilts his head at the wall that fronts the corridor. “It’s right there.”

Severus lifts both eyebrows. “Directly opposite my quarters?”

“Salazar wanted it to be out of the way.” Nizar glances at the wall. “ _Open up,_ ” he tells it in Parseltongue, and watches in satisfaction as the wall slides open. The revealed tunnel is smooth, glossy stone with an arched ceiling. “Want to go for a walk?”

Severus gives the tunnel a look of distaste. “At least it’s not being invaded by tree roots.”

Nizar judges Severus’s expression and the way he is clenching one fist. “ _Close now_ ,” he says, and the wall slides shut. “Maybe another time. I’m not in a hurry to find a basilisk’s corpse.”

“ _I want to see it_ ,” Kanza whispers sadly. “ _I want to see Jalaf_.”

“ _We will, dearest_ ,” Nizar reassures her. “ _But you know how Severus feels about tunnels. We’ll do it later_.”

Nizar glances over at Severus, who relaxed the moment the wall slid closed. “It can’t be opened by anyone except a Parselmouth, Severus, and I’m not telling anyone where this is.”

Severus nods. “I appreciate that. I’m not fond of the idea that there is an entrance right here.”

They get into Severus’s quarters without further incident, be it student or newly revealed passage. Nizar’s first sip of Firewhiskey has him breathing out what feels like actual fire. “Oh, wow. That’s aptly named.”

“It isn’t to your preference,” Severus observes.

He takes another sip, the alcohol burning in his mouth before he swallows it. “Do you have to build up a tolerance for this until it no longer feels like you’re drinking a bonfire?”

“I like to have something that captures my attention.”

Nizar snorts out a laugh. “Well, it certainly does that.” He regards the pale golden liquid. “It’s been a really odd day.”

Severus smiles. “I will drink to that.”

“Fuck, so will I,” Nizar mutters. The moment their glasses clink together, he drains what’s left of the Firewhiskey and swallows it down.

“You are meant to savor that, not inhale it,” Severus says.

“I was not lingering over liquid fire, thank you.” Nizar turns the empty crystal glass in his hand, watching the play of light through the angled patterns. He loves what the play of light from the torches creates when the light is scattered through the glass.

Severus removes his robe, retrieves the ancient potions book from an inner pocket, and sits down on the sofa. “I’m so glad it will soon be the weekend. I desperately want to attempt most of these.”

“Unless you’ve borrowed Miss Granger’s Time-Turner, I don’t think that’s going to be possible in two days.” Nizar thinks about it, listens to Kanza’s hissed encouragement, and gets out his own book. The empty glass goes onto the mantelpiece, since he’s not sure where it is meant to reside. “Company?”

“Miss Granger returned the Time-Turner to Minerva, who in turn gave it back to the Ministry. I would have kept it.”

 _That isn’t a no_ , Nizar thinks, and sits down next to Severus. He opens the book to the page he’d left off on earlier and leans over so their shoulders are pressed together.

“Nizar, that is…”

“Is it a problem?” Nizar asks. Severus has tensed up again, and he can feel it.

“It’s not something I am accustomed to. Why?”

Nizar shrugs without moving. “If you were locked in a portrait for nearly a thousand years, wouldn’t you seek out another’s company? You’re the only person in Hogwarts who isn’t disturbed by my presence, and—”

Dammit. He has well and truly botched this; this is not something Severus wants.

Nizar sits up, staring at the fire. “People in this century consider touch in an entirely different manner, don’t they? I’m not sure I ever really noticed before. Those who sat together in the Common Room were friends.”

Nizar draws in a breath and releases it. Then he turns and forces himself to look Severus in the eye. “That was very rude of me. I’ve made you uncomfortable and offended you, and I’m sorry. I never meant to do either. I’m going to show myself out.”

Severus is staring at him, an unidentifiable expression frozen on his face that still looks far too much like fear. “Good night,” Nizar bids him, and Apparates directly back to his quarters.

“ _You didn’t tell anyone you could do that_ ,” Kanza says. “ _That will be amusing later_.”

“Right. Of course it will.” Nizar drapes his robe over a chair at the table and then sits down on his sofa, which means he’s facing the owl’s portrait. She is awake and offering the slow blink of the contented night predator.

“Father?” Galiena calls from behind him. “Aren’t you off to bed soon?”

Nizar swallows. “I think that I fucked something up, and in less than twenty-four hours, no less. That’s a new record.” He gets up and wanders back into the storage room, sitting down on top of the trunk before he buries his face in his hands.

“ _Hermanito_?”

He glances up to find that Salazar has found his way to the portrait frame closest to the wall. It’s the youngest portrait of his brother that exists unless one goes to Castile, and Nizar doesn’t know if any of those survived the centuries. “Hello, Sal.”

“You look absolutely wretched, little brother. What’s wrong?” Salazar asks.

“What did you send me here?” Nizar asks, his throat so tight it hurts to say the words. “This is hell, Sal! I don’t belong here. They know it, and so do I.”

Salazar lets out a sigh. “Nizar, you do belong here. You weathered nearly a millennium to do so. Others will come to realize that you fit within this castle still. Even she welcomes you.”

Nizar bites his lip and nods. “She does. Hogewáþ doesn’t seem as strong as she used to, but I can still speak to her.”

“I’ve not heard the old word in a long time. I missed the sound of it,” Salazar says.

“Maybe I’ll carve it on a wall. Sal, I—I know one person. Just one. If I’ve just wrecked my friendship with Severus by pushing too hard, then there is no reason for me to stay here.”

“Little brother, Severus will not break a friendship over what I’m certain is a trivial matter.”

Nizar wipes at his eyes. “You didn’t see the look on his face.”

“You are upset by many things, and the crest of the wave chose to break over this single matter,” Salazar says gently. “Say this foolish event comes to pass. Where will you go?”

“I’ll go find Voldemort and kill him just to get that task out of the way. Then I’ll…” Nizar shrugs. “There is an entire planet out there. I’m certain I could find something to do with the rest of my life.”

Salazar shakes his head. “Nizar, it’s all right to grieve for what you’ve lost.”

“I don’t know how!” Nizar bursts out. “I can’t remember half of what I’m grieving for!”

“As Rowena said: give it time.” Salazar waits for him to dry his eyes again. “There should still be a scroll in that trunk bearing our family’s seal. Did you read it?”

Nizar shakes his head. “I got as far as the _pronunciamento_ I received from Eidyn Buhr for Brice’s tomb. That was…that was as far as I could go.”

“I can’t blame you for that.” Salazar hesitates. “You should rest, little brother.”

Nizar shakes his head. “I’ve got an entire office full of books I need to read. I have to be ready to teach a lot of children not to be bloody sheep come Monday morning.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

“Dammit!” Severus shouts, glaring at the embers still burning in his fireplace.

He hadn’t meant for that to happen. _He_ was the one who’d blundered. _He_ was the one who’d done something wrong, and instead Nizar had turned around and granted Severus the kindest apology he’d ever received in his entire life.

Then he’d Disapparated out of Severus’s quarters, over which Severus is still nursing a quiet grudge. Nizar hadn’t mentioned that being tied into the castle’s magic meant the Anti-Apparition wards were meaningless to him.

When had he last touched another human being in a form that wasn’t related to dealing with a student? It’s disheartening to realize that it was during the first war, after he’d turned spy for the Order. He’d attempted dating among normal men and women so he could avoid all the concerns of the wizarding war. He hadn’t done well, but he hadn’t done poorly, either. His best fortune was encountering a man, two years older than Severus, who’d been kind, willing to teach and guide someone who was still fumbling.

Severus groans and puts his hands over his face. He’s beginning to think he might want that sort of intimacy with Nizar, and every time Nizar touches him, Severus freezes as if he’s been hexed. The man has hugged him and leaned against him, as a friend would do, and Severus coped with both actions like an imbecile.

He is going to have to overcome that reaction, even if Nizar wants nothing more than friendship. It might even be the role he plays interfering, but he can learn to…put that aside, in private. He’s done it before. He’s just not used to that, either.

Severus sleeps on the sofa and awakens to a delivered tea tray at his usual rising time. Accompanying the tea is a note from Albus, informing him that lunch will be held in the staff lounge in order to introduce Nizar Slytherin to the rest of the faculty.

He showers, gets dressed, and has breakfast in the Great Hall. His Slytherins are whispering among themselves, and are radiating smug pleasure at what they know is coming. Severus politely ignores it, even if it’s not subtle. Severus was not fond of being outnumbered, either.

He teaches both of his morning classes of third-year Slytherins and Gryffindors, enjoys his N.E.W.T. class with his sixth-years, and then tries not to rage in frustration over dealing with first-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. He berates an idiot Ravenclaw for not being wise enough to read the bloody ingredients list properly, cleans up a mess, and sends them scrambling off to lunch. With that done, he leaves the classroom, shutting the door, and proceeds to the lounge on the second floor.

Albus is already there, as is Minerva, Septima, Aurora, Filius, Rubeus, and Barnaby. “Are we the only ones who understand the idea of promptness?” Severus asks.

“Some days it truly seems that way,” Barnaby says in disgust. Severus eyes him, wondering if Albus is going to be searching for a new music teacher at the end of the school year. The man hasn’t professed any sort of enjoyment in his subject matter during the last three terms.

Most of the others arrive within the next two minutes. Eustas stirs himself from the Alchemy classroom, which is a surprise, as is Quintinus crawling out of his hole of an office. Even Sybill climbs down from her tower and arrives with pronouncements of doom on her lips. Binns does not put in an appearance, which isn’t a surprise at all.

Nizar walks in, sees them all sitting and waiting, and halts mid-step. “Oh. I actually thought there would be more of you. Hello.”

Severus clenches one hand into a fist, but otherwise doesn’t react. Nizar is clean-shaven and dressed in what appears to be a dark, patterned silk tunic over a black linen shirt, belted at the waist with a thin leather black belt and small pouch resting near his hip. The clothes are archaic, yes, but they are well made and tailored to fit. Instead of looking entirely out of place, Nizar strikes an impressive figure.

Nizar also has the blown-out stare of someone who spent an entire night with their face crammed into a book.

“Quite understandable,” Albus says, waving Nizar forward. “Nizar Hariwalt Slytherin, this is the full faculty of Hogwarts minus our History Teacher, who often forgets to attend such meetings.” He then introduces each teacher in turn by name and subject matter:

“Barnaby Harper teaches music; Minerva McGonagall is our Transfiguration instructor; Filius Flitwick teaches Charms; Rubeus Hagrid is our Gamekeeper as well as our teacher for Care of Magical Creatures; Madam Pomfrey you’ve met already; Aurora Sinistra teaches Astronomy; Septima Vector instructs our students in Arithmancy; Bathsheda Babbling teaches Ancient Runes and Ancient Studies; Sybill Trelawney, you might have noticed, is here for Divination; Rolanda Hooch is our Flight Instructor as well as our Quidditch referee; Madam Pince is our Librarian; Eustas Viridian teaches Alchemy, while Quintinus Stirling lectures on Ghoul Studies;  Sasha Willowood is our Art instructor, Cassandra Shafiq teaches Magical Theory, while Charity Burbage lectures on Muggle Studies. Argus Filch here is the castle’s caretaker, and Mrs. Norris is his assistant.”

Nizar tilts his head and then repeats every name again, facing each professor as he does so. “Nice to meet all of you.” Severus observes the expression on Nizar’s face and knows he’s displeased by the named classes, but not why.

“Likewise,” Minerva replies with perfect politeness. The sentiment is returned in a low murmur by perhaps half of the remaining faculty, while the others say nothing at all. Imbeciles.

“I absolutely love your shirt, even if the cut is, er…ancient,” Sasha says in appreciation.

Nizar glances down at his tunic. “It’s Old Road silk. I wasn’t in the mood for robes today, and it’s something familiar.”

“Do you have more?” Sasha asks, smiling.

“Yes, actually. Helga was pushy about making sure we were all properly clothed and not running around in rags,” Nizar answers. “Perhaps later, though.”

Sasha nods. “Of course.”

“Now, then. We have fifty minutes left to have lunch, and perhaps to talk,” Albus says, and the house-elves bring forth the meal.

Severus pays just enough attention to his food not to choke on it. He’s observing Nizar, who is not eating much of anything. His attention is on the flow of conversation, watching faces and gestures as he tries to familiarize himself with twenty new people. When Nizar finally turns his head and meets Severus’s eyes, Severus looks right at him, frowns, and mouths, “Eat something, dunderhead.”

The words startle Nizar, who blinks at him a few times before he glances down at his plate. At least he actually begins eating, though he gets halfway through the meal and just looks confused.

“Oh, I have to ask,” Rolanda says to Nizar. “What is it? Unfamiliar food?”

“I’ve eaten in a lot of different places. Unfamiliar food isn’t the difficulty,” Nizar replies. “I’m just wondering why the English dishes I _do_ recognize are so bloody bland.”

“Oh, that.” Charity grins. “The French discovered an array of new spices some centuries ago. The English, in direct response, turned to a bland palate.”

Nizar rolls his eyes. “Yes, I really can see the southerners of this island doing so just to stick it to the French.”

“Southerners instead of English?” Minerva asks.

“There were more than two countries in Britain in my day,” Nizar says. “It was easier to mention a region of the island. England existed, yes, but Wales was still three differing kingdoms. The Danes were driven out but they weren’t done prodding at the eastern coast. In the north, Strathclyde still existed, and Scotland was still a small kingdom called Alba. The remainder of the north was held by Moray, varying Norse-Gaelic rulers, and the Orkney Earldom. This castle was in Moray, not Alba.”

“Spoken like a natural teacher,” Filius comments.

Nizar frowns. “No, I just don’t know how to shut up. It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Are you truly Salazar Slytherin’s brother?” Aurora asks.

“Finally.” Nizar leans back in his chair. “Someone asked. The tension was starting to become irritating.”

“Well?” Charity prompts. “Are you?”

“Yes, really and truly, Salazar was my brother. I’m forty-two years old physically, but I’m really one thousand twenty, and right now I hate existence.”

“Existence isn’t so bad,” Rubeus says.

Nizar sighs. “Everyone I knew and loved died centuries ago. How would you feel about it?”

“Think I’d be bawling my eyes out,” Rubeus answers after a thoughtful pause.

Nizar points at him. “That, too, but interspersed with books. Severus, I read _Through the Looking Glass_ last night, and that was a terrible, terrible mistake!”

“I cannot wait to find out why.” Severus smirks at Nizar. “Was it worse than the first one?”

“Less that and more the bloody theme of the fucking book. Two worlds on either side of the looking glass: which one is real, and which one is fantasy?” Nizar scowls.

“We could do without the foul language, I think,” Cassandra says with a sniff.

“I’m sorry, I thought I was in a room full of _adults_ ,” Nizar retorts. “But if it offends so much, I’ll resort to the words as they were in my day, and you’ll not know I’m still saying the exact same thing.”

Septima smiles. “Now that was interesting. I believe I just listened to your speech patterns float through three different centuries.”

Nizar glances at her. “More like four, actually.”

Minerva leans forward. “Perhaps you should tell us about yourself. We’re all curious, and we do reserve judgement without casting aspersions on someone for merely being a Slytherin.”

Severus resists the urge to roll his eyes. There are others at the table who do not feel the same.

“All right. I taught Defence in this school for twenty-five years, from 992 until 1017,” Nizar says. “I don’t call it Defence Against the Dark Arts; you can kill someone with a great number of spells that others would consider harmless. I taught my students how to defend themselves on every conceivable level, the better for them _not_ to wander off into the wilds of Europe and die in foolish ways.”

“What did you think of the school’s textbooks on the subject?” Barnaby asks.

“ _Esos libros son basura estúpida inútil_,” Nizar replies. “It’s like staring down a curriculum designed to create sheep. No mention of basic healing spells, mind magic, or even bloody ethics! Who the hell stripped ethics out of this school’s curriculum?”

“Someone stupid, obviously,” Severus says in a dry voice.

“The students are meant to rely on their Heads of House, and the ideals of their House, to learn ethical behavior,” Quintinus says.

Nizar gives the man a flat stare. “That is truly stupid. Before Severus, I watched three successive Heads of Slytherin House prove themselves to be completely useless, and look at the results that’s gained us: Voldemort and those silly twits who call themselves Death Eaters!”

“I do so like how you label some of the most feared individuals in Britain as ‘silly twits,’” Pomona says wryly.

Nizar shakes his head. “I knew those idiots when they were children, whether they spoke to me or not. Most of them were either stupid or _desperate_. The ones who were desperate realized exactly what they’d gotten into. They then either escaped or died in the attempt.”

“You sound like you could name them,” Albus says quietly.

“Euphemia Grace. Guinevere Greengrass. Octavian Burke. Regulus Black. Jewel Burke. Martinus Flint. Alice Bainbridge. Katrina Farley. Ipolius Derrick.” Nizar waves his hand at Severus. “Present company.”

The silence that follows is almost painful. “Except for Severus, all those you named are dead,” Minerva says.

Nizar smiles at her, though there is too much grief in the expression to label it happy. “I’m aware.”

The conversation ceases after that as everyone finishes their meal, or departs to prepare for classes. At least outright suspicion has faded from several faces, replaced by wary curiosity or genuine interest in Nizar Slytherin.

Severus catches Nizar’s gaze and tilts his head towards the door. Nizar gives him an odd look, but grants him a near-imperceptible nod. When Severus gets up to leave, Nizar follows a moment later but is immediately waylaid by Rubeus.

“Hi there!” Rubeus exclaims, reaching out to clasp Nizar’s hand. “I’m Rubeus, which you would’ve caught before, but I thought I’d introduce myself proper. How’re you?”

Nizar stares up at Rubeus. “Short,” he says in blank amazement. “What is in the food in this country?”

Severus finds an excuse to linger in the room in the form of Minerva, who wants to argue over some of the recent detentions that were not caused by the pink toad. He can keep up a conversation with her while also listening to Nizar and Rubeus. He thinks Minerva might very well be doing the same thing he is. Severus _knows_ Albus is doing so while pretending to listen to Quintinus and Cassandra argue about ghoul pack ethics.

“Nah, t’weren’t the food that did it for me,” Rubeus says to Nizar. “I’m half-giant. Er…that isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

Nizar looks confused. “Why would it be a problem?”

“Some folks aren’t all that happy about that,” Rubeus admits. “Thought I’d rather get that bit of awkward out o’ the way, first.”

“Half-bloods like you used to be _common_ ,” Nizar says, to Severus’s surprise. “Are you giving me another reason to hate the twentieth century?”

“No!” Rubeus protests at once, and then hesitates. “Well, not on purpose, at any rate.”

“I assume you’ve no problem with half-goblins, then,” Filius says.

“No, see, that is where I’m going to stare in disbelief. How?” Nizar asks, wide-eyed. “Goblin culture really frowns on a goblin sullying themselves with a human. They used to execute the offender!”

“Oh, well, the sullying part is still true.” Filius smiles. “My mother was persistent. She set her cap, and she wasn’t about to give up. My father left his clan to be with her, though the Ministry would have prevented the execution bit.”

Nizar is still staring. “Why the hell does the Ministry think it has any sort of control over the affairs of the Green Folk?”

Filius shrugs. “It makes them feel better to believe it.”

“Bleedin’ Ministry would be watching us piss if they thought they could get away with it,” Eustas grumbles.

“You should watch out. The Ministry will want you to have proper credentials, Slytherin,” Charity teases.

Nizar starts to frown. “What, twenty-five years of teaching at a time when those stupid credentials didn’t exist isn’t credential-worthy enough?”

“Fortunately, that’s not a concern you will have unless you decide to teach elsewhere in the United Kingdom,” Albus interrupts, smiling. “You were never fired, so I did not re-hire you so much as return you to your original position.”

Nizar points at Albus. “I want back-pay for nine hundred seventy-eight years of hanging on a wall, then,” he says, and turns to leave. Minerva gives Severus one more stern look that has a smile lurking beneath before she exits the room, which seems to be the signal for everyone remaining to try and leave at the same time.

Severus waits until he knows Nizar is tracking him before he walks down the corridor until he reaches a side passage that sees little use, especially with most of the students still in the Great Hall. “I wanted to speak with you,” he says when Nizar arrives.

Nizar glances back over his shoulder before he looks up at Severus. “All right.”

“I wish to apologize.” Severus holds up his hand when Nizar opens his mouth. “Please. Last night—I lacked the means to say that what happened was not unwelcome. I was being honest when I did say that I wasn’t used to it. It has literally been years since I’ve been in such close proximity to anyone, Nizar.”

Nizar lowers his head, pressing his lips together before he speaks. “I was very much afraid that I’d pushed too hard. You’re the only person I know, Severus.”

“I truly did not mean to leave you with that impression.” Severus shakes his head. “I’m so very bad at this, Nizar. I do not make friends easily, and I do not discard them lightly.”

“I know. You still think of Lily Evans as your friend, even though she’s long gone.”

“I do,” Severus replies. “I learned that lesson, Nizar. If you wanted to join me again this evening, for reading or conversation, I would welcome your company.”

Nizar grants him a tired smile. “We sound so damned formal, Severus. I’ll be there at nine o’clock. Did you have anything in mind?”

Severus frowns. “I need to read this stupid book now. You’ve left me bloody curious!”

“Curiosity is what fucked up Alice in the first place, Severus.”

When Severus finally ensures that the last of his Slytherins are where they should be for the evening, and his Prefects are actually doing their jobs, it’s ten minutes past nine. He walks swiftly back to his quarters and finds Nizar leaning against the wall near the door, reading yet another book.

“What’s that one? More Defence tomes?” Severus asks.

“No. Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. I found it in a lost-and-found bin on the first floor,” Nizar says.

“It might belong to someone,” Severus tells him as he opens the door.

Nizar wanders inside while still reading. “I’ll put it back when I’m done. I brought the horror, I mean, _Through the Looking Glass._ ”

“I really don’t know if I should thank you for that,” Severus replies dryly.

He has a drink, though Nizar declines a second opportunity to combat Firewhiskey. He settles in on the sofa, and breathes through the initial flinch when Nizar leans against him. “No, don’t get up,” he says when Nizar shifts as if to move. “I’ll get over it.”

“I also have no wish to torture you,” Nizar says quietly.

“It isn’t torture,” Severus counters. He makes himself focus on the book instead, which works as an excellent distraction—he spends a great deal of time trying to figure out if Alice is literally insane.

After the third chapter, Severus realizes that he’s heard no sounds of rustling paper aside from his own book. He glances down to find that Nizar has fallen asleep with his head propped against Severus’s shoulder. His lips are slightly parted; he is breathing in the manner of someone who is deeply asleep.

“I’m trapped,” Severus murmurs, shaking his head. It’s gratifying to realize that he doesn’t mind at all.


	8. Eidyn Buhr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A Slytherin. Who was he to you?"

Nizar awakens with a pain in his neck and to the sight of a house-elf staring at him. “Oh, gods, what?” he slurs, trying to shake himself back to wakefulness. Then he realizes he’s leaning against another person and hurriedly sits up.

“Did I fall asleep?” Nizar asks Severus, who is rubbing his face with both hands.

“Yes.” Severus lets out a sigh. “And so did I.”

“It being seven o’clock,” the house-elf says. “I can be bringing breakfast for two again.”

“That’s fine,” Severus replies. He waits until the elf is gone. “Now it will be a rumor mill.”

“Not if I just Apparate straight back to my quarters,” Nizar offers.

Severus eyes him in early-morning disdain. “You didn’t mention that you could do so within this castle.”

“Yes, well. Sometimes what you don’t tell people is much more fun.”

“You told _me_ ,” Severus says.

Nizar smiles. “By demonstration, no less. Imagine that. Now please tell me if you’re kicking me out or not.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “It’s too late. You’re committed to the act via house-elf.”

When Nizar gets back from rinsing his face in the sink basin, there is a meal waiting. Severus waits until he’s sitting before he points at the book resting on the sofa. “How was Oscar Wilde?”

“He reminded me of why the 1800s were infuriatingly boring,” Nizar says. “Also, it’s a book about a man with a cursed portrait. I really don’t plan on finishing _Dorian Gray_. Ever.”

Severus smiles down at his plate. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck on your third attempt at finding a book of fiction.”

Nizar sips at his tea and then taps on it with one finger to cool it down before he scalds himself. “Honestly, I’m a bit leery of the idea by now. Did you finish _Through the Looking Glass_?”

“No.” Severus frowns. “I think I fell asleep out of self-defence. _Alice in Wonderland_ at least made a certain amount of sense! I’m not sure how you waded through the entirety of the sequel.”

Nizar shrugs. “It was something new, which I probably never needed to experience. Though if it weren’t for the stupid cursed portrait, I’d probably read _Dorian Gray_. For the time it was published in, and where, there was an awful lot of…oh, what’s the modern phrasing? There were a lot of descriptions of pretty men,” he says, which is when Severus nearly chokes on his tea.

“I keep forgetting you were raised in what was technically a non-magical environment.” Nizar watches as Severus dries his face. “I didn’t think you minded.”

“I don’t. It was just…that is not conversation I’m used to having at the breakfast table.”

Nizar raises an eyebrow. “You most often eat breakfast in front of students while seated at a table full of teachers. Do I even want to know what you lot talk about?”

Severus puts down the napkin. “I’m seated next to Minerva. It’s either Quidditch, gambling, mutual complaints about Albus’s nonsense, horrid gossip, or arguments as to which student deserved what detention.”

“Oh, so just like Godric and Salazar first thing in the morning, then. You both definitely embody the traits of those particular Founders.” Nizar grins when Severus gives him an incredulous stare. “I’m serious; that was morning for those two, especially if there had been drinking the night before. I didn’t realize you and Minerva McGonagall were such good friends.”

Severus seems baffled by that. “We’re…not.”

Nizar tilts his head. “You might want to reevaluate that idea. But after breakfast.”

“At the very least,” Severus returns dryly.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar returns to his quarters after Severus excuses himself, getting ready for a full day of hosting detentions. The week of Hallowe'en is a powerful one, and the magic in the air often makes otherwise well-behaved students act like complete loons.

He takes a bath, puts on fresh clothing, and then stares at what is hanging in the wardrobe. Finally he selects a robe, two shirts, and two tunics to set aside, which will remain as they are. The rest he gladly hands over to the house-elves for altering, and then makes them promise to bring back the fabric scraps. It’s always useful when an artist owes him a favor.

His truis are fine as they are but for the elves’ insistence on updating the laces to zippers and buttons. Nizar tries to stand firm and fails utterly; he keeps one pair aside and lets the elves kidnap the rest of those, too. The cotton socks are an addition he’s grateful for, but he’s still baffled by the idea that he needs to wear pants _and_ trousers.

“Can you please explain this to me in a way that makes sense?” Nizar asks the elf Filky, who argued with him about the truis and won. “Because I really do not understand this.”

Filky’s eye twitches as if she’s on the verge of a fit. “Professor Slytherin, Filky is wearing a tea towel.”

“Oh, it’s Professor, now, is it?” Nizar sits down on the bed. “Fine, you win. Pants. Underpants. Underwear. Undergarments. _La ropa interior_. _Le sous-vêtements_. Bloody _interlus_! Whatever they’re called.” His children are right; English is hard. He often gives it up as a lost cause just because it seems like the bywords change every five minutes. “Just please dye them a dark color. Brighter colors and whites are distracting.”

“Does the Professor Slytherin need bathing shorts?” Filky asks.

Nizar stares at her. “For the bathtub?”

“No, for the lake.” Filky is frowning. “For swimming, Professor Slytherin.”

“ _Why_?” Nizar asks in confusion, which is when Filky gives up in house-elf despair.

He spends the rest of the day roaming around Hogwarts, trying to reacquaint himself with a castle that is both familiar and unrecognizable. A few of the more daring or intellectual students, like Miss Granger, speak to him regardless of House affiliation. The Slytherins puff up like proud, ridiculous peacocks whenever they realize he’s in a room until Nizar finally has enough, snatches Malcolm Baddock by the ear, and tells him to act less like a strutting bird and more like a young man with proper manners.

Maybe he shouldn’t have done so, but he would have done the same no matter the House. His Slytherins used to have some bloody sense of decorum. They were also lying like little bastard fiends when they swore to his portrait that they were behaving themselves outside of the Slytherin Common Room.

After nightfall, he takes dinner in his quarters, then leaves his robes behind so they won’t be caught by twigs as he goes outside to explore. There is a dip of a valley occupied by a cabin that he stares at for nearly five minutes. He’s all but certain a tree used to be in that spot, but his memories refuse to provide further details.

He enters the forest, which has somehow picked up the intimidating name of the Forbidden Forest. Ludicrous. Unicorns and pixies are not terrifying.

Nizar halts in place and remains utterly still as a spider the size of an underweight dragon trundles across the path. He was wrong; that is a very good reason to declare the forest verboten. What the hell are they feeding the spiders in Scotland these days?

Nizar greets the unicorns, who are fine with his presence but a bit leery of Kanza. Then he finds thestrals, which are immune to a basilisk’s stare and don’t care about her presence at all, so he spends a nice amount of time introducing himself to the herd.

He wanders on, feeling the magic of Hogwarts fade as he approaches the far eastern side of the forest. Odd; the old magic used to encompass the entire Forest, protecting the centaurs, nargles, unicorns, fairies, doxies, pixies, and other magical creatures that lived within it, a list that now apparently includes giant spiders.

Nizar is standing outside of the forest boundary when someone Apparates into place behind him. Not a house-elf, who would announce themselves at once, and not someone from Hogwarts, who would do the same…or at least be wondering why their portrait was wandering about in a place where it could get wet. That is fifteen minutes of gasping for breath from laughing too hard that he’s never getting back, but the look on Theodore Nott’s face was worth it.

“Good evening.”

Nizar lifts an eyebrow at that feathery whisper of a male voice. He turns in place with his hands resting over his sleeves, hiding the grip he has on his wand. “Good evening. Can I help you?” he asks of the new arrival, who has the skin of an unhealthy corpse. His eyes are red, reptilian-slitted; his nose is much like a snake’s, but more pronounced and vulnerable to being damaged. He is hairless but otherwise human in appearance, and resembles a man who had a bad incident while attempting to learn to become a Metamorphmagus.

“It is more I who wonder if I can be of assistance to you?”

Nizar glances up and down at the man’s heavy black robes. He is holding his wand blatantly in his hand but not pointing it; his feet are bare. “You look like you just crawled out of your own tomb. I’m not so certain you’re capable of assisting anyone.”

The man laughs in a way that makes the hackles rise on the back of Nizar’s neck. He hates that sound, and it’s taking all of his willpower to not simply make the poor fool dead at once. “You might be surprised. I am more than my appearance would suggest.”

“Okay. Fine. Impress me,” Nizar invites.

“I tracked you here using a tool of my own design. The moment I heard rumor of a true Slytherin returned to Hogwarts, I simply had to see for myself.”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Nizar studies the man’s face again. “I have to say, I don’t see the family resemblance.” Or any resemblance. This corpse-man doesn’t look like the arrogant twit who graduated from Hogwarts in 1944.

The barb strikes hard, which is amusing. “ _That is not my name_ ,” Voldemort hisses in outrage.

“ _It was your name in 1938. Why is it no longer acceptable when it served you through seven years of Hogwarts schooling quite nicely_?” Nizar counters.

Voldemort’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “How do you know such things?”

“I said hello to you in September of 1938. You told me to…oh, yes. ‘Fuck off.’” Nizar shakes his head. “Such inappropriate language for an eleven-year-old.”

Voldemort looks disappointed. “You are merely a portrait, then. Not a true Slytherin at all.”

Nizar smiles. “All right. Believe that if you like.” He has his wand out, the Killing Curse cast, before the idiot can react.

The green blast strikes true. Voldemort staggers back, his hand pressed to his chest, before he glares at Nizar in red-eyed rage. Dumbledore had not been lying about Voldemort’s immunity, but Nizar wanted to see it for himself. He’s just not certain yet how Voldemort survives it. He’d like to find out; the sooner the man is dead, the happier he is going to be.

“All right. That does actually impress me.” Nizar grins. “Tell me: if I slice you down into pieces, do all of those pieces heal back together in the proper order, or do you simply become tiny and annoying bits of living flesh?”

In answer, Voldemort Disapparates. Nizar’s jaw falls open. “Now how is that any fun? Seriously, that is a petty response. How are people even afraid of your pathetic, useless waste of a half-rotten carcass?”

Nizar strides back to Hogwarts, probably on the verge of an impolite snit. He meets Albus Dumbledore on the front steps of the school, who has his head cocked to one side.

Nizar realizes he’s been filling the air with foul language. At least it was all in Old English, which is slowly filtering back in even if other languages don’t seem inclined to join it. Thank you, spell-addled brain.

“Is there a problem?” Dumbledore asks in a tone that suggests he was fully aware of what Nizar was saying.

Nizar points back towards the forest. “That man hasn’t learned any damned manners in fifty-one years!”

Dumbledore’s innocent expression vanishes. “Voldemort was here?”

“On the eastern border of the forest. Why doesn’t the school’s magic enclose the forest?” Nizar asks. “It’s supposed to encompass the forest completely!”

“I don’t know,” Dumbledore replies. “Perhaps the forest grew beyond the magic’s borders?”

“It was always supposed to encompass the forest, whether it grew or shrank over the years. Too many creatures rely on those trees for protection.”

Dumbledore nods. “I see. What did Voldemort want?”

“To meet the family. He wasn’t impressed; called me a mere portrait.” Nizar rolls his eyes. “Why is that man immune to the Killing Curse?”

“No one knows the answer to that, either,” Dumbledore says. “You cast an Unforgiveable?”

“In my day, it was called surviving,” Nizar retorts. “Would you be so worried about it if it had actually worked?”

“Being caught casting the three Unforgivables by those in Ministry authority can lead to imprisonment in Azkaban, particularly the Killing Curse,” Dumbledore says.

“That does not answer my question.” Nizar sighs. “I’m going inside. The future is bloody awful.”

“You haven’t even encountered automobiles yet,” Dumbledore calls after him.

“You are bad at encouragement!” Nizar shouts back.

Nizar goes right to Severus’s office and knocks on the door. “Where the hell can I find an automobile?” he asks when Severus answers.

Severus gives him a searching look. “Are you certain you wish to find out?”

“No. Find me one anyway.”

Severus Apparates them to Eidyn Buhr, now called Edinburgh. Portions of it still look like they did in Nizar’s day. The rest is utterly alien.

It also has automobiles, which are numerous and everywhere. Nizar watches them from the footpath, trying not to push his back directly into the wall of the building they’re standing in front of. “Automobiles: horseless, fully armored four-wheeled carts fueled by compressed fire.”

“That is a fairly accurate description of a car, yes. What do you think?”

“Do they fly?” Nizar asks.

Severus shakes his head. “No.”

“Then fuck that. I’d rather own a broom.”

“You’re not another Quidditch fiend, are you?” Severus asks as they walk back to a safe Apparition point.

“I’ve played. We didn’t really set teams the way Hogwarts does now. We would just go out on weekends and enjoy the game. Or enjoy breaking each other’s bones. Whichever came first.” He catches Severus biting back another smile. “Ah, I’m entertaining again.”

“A bit.”

Nizar halts when he catches sight of a church spire. “Is there still a Saint Cuthbert’s church in Edinburgh?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t live here. I don’t even know if there is a wizarding population in Edinburgh,” Severus says.

“There used to be.” Nizar gets the attention of the next passing set of individuals. “Excuse me.”

“ _An urrainn dhomh do chuideachadh_?” Two women, one of whom is smiling behind her hand. He’s still in his robes and probably looks like an archaic tourist.

Nizar half-closes his eyes and forces his brain to be useful, if only out of spite. “ _Càit a bheil an Naomh Cuthbert eaglais_?” he asks the middle-aged Scot who’d spoken.

The first one looks disappointed. “Tis on the Lothian Road, western foot o’ the Castle Rock.”

“ _Tapadh leat_!” Nizar says cheerfully, even if his smile feels like pure venom.

“You speak Scots Gaelic.” Severus sounds amused, either by the language or by the fact that Nizar is now the one leading them. Nizar doesn’t know where a Lothian Road is, but he does know that the Castle Rock used to be the site of the old fortress, and that’s unmistakable.

“It used to be just Gaelic, which I think is now Irish Gaelic. I still don’t remember that one, but Slytherin House has had more than a few Scots Gaelic speakers in the past few centuries. I learned it. It’s also why I can speak Castilian and be understood by other Spanish speakers. Not as many changes there, but enough to be inconvenient if I hadn’t adapted.”

“Listening to everything and everyone,” Severus says. “You probably taught me my first lessons in spycraft.”

“At least they were useful lessons.” Nizar stops at the sight of the church, set at the foot of the western side of the fortress. Most of the original construction on the hill is gone, though tiny bits of it seem familiar. The church is also almost entirely changed but for one aspect. “There, that one tower on the side closest to us. Most of that is still the original stone from 993, but the newer work looks to have been built to match.

“In my day, the original tower was white stone, so bright it would reflect sunlight for miles. It wasn’t solid white to me, though; there were shades of blues and purple, reds, greens, yellows—colors I could describe but no one else except Salazar could see. I used to come here when Eidyn Burh was still a mere fort just to watch that tower reflect those colors.”

“The Muggles call that tetrachromacy,” Severus tells him. “It means instead of a standard human’s three means within the eye of taking in color, you have a fourth.”

“I wonder if it’s useful for anything aside from being blinded by Albus Dumbledore’s robes all the damned time.” Nizar is pleased that it is taking Severus so much more effort to keep from smiling. “Muggle is an insult, by the way. Just like Mudblood.”

“I’m aware,” Severus replies without looking at him. “I am not in a position to lose that habit at the moment.”

“I’m aware,” Nizar echoes, to Severus’s irritation. “This way.”

“Why so much interest in a church?”

“I’m not interested in the church. It’s the magicians’ crypts near its burial ground that I’m looking for, and if the magical population vacated, it will be hiding.” Nizar hits the pavement and crosses the road when Severus decides it’s safe enough to do so, even if Nizar isn’t quite convinced. Those blasted automobiles are fast.

To his relief, the stone façade appears as they approach the older side of the church, which has a garden fronting it that looks as if it might be the oldest part of the church’s burial ground. The crypts for the magical population were dug into the hillside on a slant, so the stone was higher than the burial ground behind it.

The façade used to be taller than Godric, but the street seems to be layers upon layers of stone that has changed the height of the original track for the crypts. Nizar has to kneel down to read the engravings, which were once at the height of his eyes.

“There you are,” he whispers, finding a crypt doorway that still has traces of the old scarlet paint on the stone.

“Who is this?” Severus asks, frowning as he joins Nizar on the ground. “Old English in Scotland?”

“He was from England, originally,” Nizar says. “Can you read Old English?”

“Somewhat,” Severus replies. “It isn’t my best language, but some of the words are similar to those in use today.”

“I’d forgotten quite a bit, but it’s one of the few languages that I’m beginning to recall with true clarity.” Nizar brushes moss and dust from the engraved letters before he recites the information there. “ _Gilbert Brice deSlizarse, also called Slytherin in the North. Died of injuries received in just battle against a terrible foe near the village of_ _Baile Cholgain. Buried with a warrior’s honors on fourteenth November, this year of our Lord 1,012_.”

“A Slytherin. Who was he to you?” Severus asks.

Nizar swallows. “My son.”

Severus looks shocked. “I didn’t know you had a child.”

“Three children by adoption. Magical adoption, the sort that settles in and ensures they might as well be your biological offspring.”

“I’m…aware of such a thing,” Severus says. “It has fallen out of favor, though.”

“I know. That stupid insistence upon blood purity is ruining a perfectly good idea.” Nizar runs his hands along Brice’s name again. “Galiena was eldest. Elfric was the youngest. Brice was between them in age. He was twenty-two years old when he died.”

“Scarlet paint,” Severus notes. Given the expression on his face, Nizar suspects the man doesn’t know what else to say.

“Yes, he was Godric’s apprentice, at least until it came time for Brice to seek his mastery. He hated his first given name. He’d have been so put off that they carved it on his tomb.” Nizar reaches up and wipes his eyes when his vision blurs. He’d suspected that seeing this again might bring forth memories, and gods, he was right. “I thought it so fucking unfair at the time that I’d outlived one of my children. Now I’ve outlived all of them.”

Severus reaches out, cautiously, and puts his hand on Nizar’s arm. “I’m sorry.” After a pause, he says, “Tell me about them?”

“Galiena was Rowena’s apprentice. She was a scribe and an artist, a crafter of magical illuminated manuscripts. I still have one of her books, and two more remain in Hogwarts’ library, though one is in Cumbric and unreadable. She had…” Nizar has to stop and wipe his face again. “She’s the only one who had children. She married one of Helga’s apprentices, a man named Uriel. Their children were Drystan and Paynel—twins, two boys. Then they had Vanora and Muriel. I think Muriel was still an infant in 1017.”

Severus’s grip on his arm tightens. “Elfric?”

“Apprenticed to Salazar. Sly little shit,” Nizar says, trying to smile. “In 1015 he went south into England, looking for untrained magical children that might have been overlooked. That was the last time any of us saw him.”

“Dead?” Severus asks gently.

Nizar nods. “If you’re scrying, looking for the dead will never gain you anything except grey mist, and that’s all we could see if Salazar tried to find him. We didn’t know how, where, or when, just that it happened. I don’t know where his body was buried, or if it was treated kindly at all. I don’t know where Galiena, Uriel, or any of their children are entombed. This is the only place I know, Severus.” He shakes his head and quickly stands up. “Can we leave? I really think I’m done wallowing for now.”

“I wouldn’t consider it wallowing.” Severus peers around, his dark eyes sharp and observant. “No one is nearby.”

“Good,” Nizar says, and Apparates straight back to the gates outside of Hogwarts. Severus joins him a moment later, and they walk back up to the school together in silence.

Once they’re inside, Severus turns to him. “You’ve invaded my quarters twice now, but I’ve yet to see yours. Pay up.”

Nizar smiles. “I think that can be arranged. Come on.”

Severus follows him all the way up to the seventh floor and then down to the corridor where his classroom lies. “It’s that close?”

“It was convenient when the children were younger,” Nizar says, pushing open the door that obligingly appears when he approaches. So far, the door has been behaving, but it won’t show itself to anyone else.

Severus frowns when Nizar leads him to the door on the left. “The last time we were here, this was your office.”

“And I said I designed this room to do whatever I want,” Nizar counters. The by-play is distracting him from the trip to Eidyn Buhr—Edinburgh—and Nizar is grateful. He pats the cast-iron _S_ that is attached to the door. “There’s a trick to it. When it’s this way, this is what you’ll find,” he says, and opens the door to reveal his office. He closes the door again and then flips the _S_. This time when he opens the door, it’s his quarters. “See?”

Severus regards the _S_ on Nizar’s door. “Is it exchanging one space for another? Or simply changing the room completely?”

“I suppose an exchange of space would be more accurate.” Nizar motions for Severus to precede him. “But if you’re outside the castle, the windows in my quarters are always visible in the correct place. Oh, and it’s not a good idea to enter without being invited.”

“I will keep that in mind. Your furniture is surprisingly modern, even if that table isn’t,” Severus observes.

“Not my doing.” Nizar gestures to the three frames on the wall opposite the window. “Children! Come say hello to your uncle’s current Head of House!”

 His children appear in their frames with their usual speed. “Hello!” Galiena says. Elfric waves; Brice manages a greeting in Old English that isn’t entirely mangled.

“Galiena, Brice, Elfric,” Nizar introduces them in turn. “Severus Snape.”

“ _Yes, him. We like him. He doesn’t lose his mind in terror just because a portrait hisses_ ,” Elfric says in Parseltongue.

“You three? Why am I not surprised.”

Nizar glances at him. “Oh?”

“They heard me mention your name outside of the Common Room once, years ago—Galiena did, at least. They have been politely stalking me ever since.” Severus has a hint of a smile on his face. “Galiena is the only one of the three that bothered with English.”

“We’re trying,” Brice says in strangled modern English. “Well. I am trying.”

“Elfric is stubborn,” Galiena observes.

“They like you,” Nizar says. “And no, I’m not just saying that. The stubborn one admitted it in Parseltongue just a moment ago.” Elfric rolls his eyes. “If you don’t want it repeated, don’t say it at all, bratling.”

“We’re off again. The Slytherins in the Common Room are fascinated by Parseltongue. Finally.” Galiena vanishes, followed by Brice and Elfric.

“I’m glad I could find a useful portrait of Salazar to put in the Common Room,” Nizar says.

Severus nods. “I do believe Salazar Slytherin is the only man who could possibly tolerate three other Parselmouths trying to crowd him out of his own portrait.”

“He was a doting uncle.” Gods, but that hurts to say. Nizar hopes that Salazar only walked away from Hogwarts in that ancient year of 1039, but remained close to their families. “And a good father.”

“Somehow I find it difficult to picture that man with children.”

“You’re used to that one bastard of a portrait who decided that if he was going to be old, he was going to _act_ like a cranky fuck,” Nizar says. “Salazar had five children. His eldest, Fortunata, was one of my students.” He smiles. “I’d forgotten that until just now.”

Severus turns around and spies the white owl in her portrait. “And who is this?”

Nizar looks at the owl and shakes his head. “I’ve no idea, Severus. I don’t remember owning an owl, though I assume I must have at some point. Birds were still an acceptable messaging system between magical and non-magical communities in those days. It meant we weren’t accidentally terrifying anyone with messages sent by Patronus.”

“Any further detail than that?” Severus asks, curious.

“Rowena had a raven, which should be no surprise at all,” Nizar says in a wry voice, and Severus smiles. “He was the smartest damned bird of that species I ever encountered. Rowena often said she’d accidentally cursed him by naming him Bertram. He lived to be forty years old.” He pauses, letting memories come to the surface without trying to fight for them. “Godric had a gyre falcon named Hardwin, who was spoiled rotten. If you brought him food, he would roll over onto his back and beg for someone to scratch his belly.”

“I see he mistook himself for a cat,” Severus says.

“He might have. At least his behavior meant that he could go without jesses, even around the infants. Hardwin wouldn’t have harmed any of our people for the world.” Nizar thinks on it. “Salazar owned no bird. He was too impatient. If he wished to speak to someone, he would usually Apparate there and do it at once rather than wait.”

Nizar snaps his fingers. “Helga. Helga had an owl from the north, a white owl. Her name was Sierida. She never really stopped being a Viking.”

“Viking,” Severus murmurs. “I do believe there is an entire House in this school that could be well-served with a reminder of their roots. Is this a painting of Sierida, then?”

“I still don’t know. It could be. All I know is that I found her stored away in a trunk.”

“That is a very modern lavatory,” Severus observes, glancing into the room in question.

Nizar nods. “The house-elves kept updating things as the centuries passed, such as this room and the furniture. They never once doubted that I would return, even if I forgot all about it. Galiena didn’t, either. She’s been lording it over her brothers’ heads that she kept faith and they didn’t. Hold on.” Kanza lets out a sleepy hissed grumble as Nizar removes her from his neck and leaves her on her charmed self-heating rock. She swears at him again and goes back to sleep.

At the junction of the three doors in the short hallway, Nizar pushes open the one for his private office first. “It used to be Brice and Elfric’s room. They were close in age and came from the same village, so they wanted to remain together. Now it’s a work space, or a place to stash a guest.”

Severus nods, his eyes tracing the books on their shelves. “That updating duplication spell—did it work here, as well?”

“It did. Once I’m used to classes, I plan to try to start back-translating the books that are in the old languages. In the meantime, the modern English copies are useful.” Nizar crosses the hall and pushes open the other door. “This was Galiena’s room. When she moved out, it became storage.”

Severus glances briefly at the chest and the stacks of ancient paper and parchment, though his gaze lingers longer on the four hung portraits. Those frames are empty as their residents roam around the castle, listening in on conversations without anyone recognizing them for who they are. “The Founders?”

“Yes. They spend most of their time wandering.” Nizar touches the pale golden wood of the frame that holds Helga’s portrait. “I own the youngest versions of the Founders in Hogwarts. I commissioned our first graduating artist, so that would have been…995, I think. They were very good, too. I asked the artist for realistic likenesses at a time when that wasn’t the style at all.”

“Yours was realistic,” Severus points out.

“Yes, but that was _me_ ,” Nizar says. “That wasn’t the stroke of a paintbrush. That was…” He trails off.

“Nizar?”

Nizar shakes his head to clear away the fog of memories that won’t come. “I don’t remember. Were you truly interested in being tied into this castle’s magic as the Head of Slytherin House should be?”

Severus politely ignores his sudden change of subject. “I am, actually. Apparition within this castle would be enough to make it worthwhile. I’m still bearing a grudge for you not telling me.”

Nizar grins. “Well, I’m not telling anyone else, and you know how to keep secrets.”

Severus makes an amused sound. “Yes.”

Nizar pushes his bedroom door open. “Last one, and then tea at the sofa.”

Severus politely glances around at the bedroom, which is light and airy for a castle. “The tapestry?”

“Galiena made that.” Nizar walks over and runs his fingers along the embroidered threads that his daughter had sewn in so finely that each symbol appears to be a living creature.

“Griffin, serpent, raven, badger.” Severus nods. “It’s incredible work for the time. I’ve seen other tapestries from that era, and the style is completely different.”

“My daughter really didn’t give a damn about style. She was an artist; she painted, wrote, or used thread magic to make what _she_ wanted.” Nizar gestures to guide Severus out of the room so he can shut the door again.

When he asks for a house-elf in the sitting room, it isn’t Filky who answers, but the one with the very large green eyes. “Hi there. Who are you?”

“Dobby, Professor Slytherin,” the house-elf replies. “Is the Professor Slytherin wanting tea for himself and the Professor Snape?”

“Yes, please.” Nizar waits as Dobby Disapparates, then returns not two minutes later with a tray. “Thank you.”

“The Professor Slytherin is welcome.” Dobby hugs Nizar’s leg. “The Professor Slytherin is being here again! All the house-elves are being so happy!” Then he vanishes.

Nizar knows his expression is twisted up in confusion. “All right, then.” He shakes his head, conjures a small table to put the tray on, and sits down. He has a cup of tea while trying to think through what he’ll need to do.

“Is this something complicated?” Severus asks.

“Yes and no. I just have to make sure I’m doing it properly. If you ever decide to leave the post as Head of Slytherin House, then someone needs to be able to remove the magic without harming you so it can then be tied to someone else.” Nizar puts his teacup down and turns in his seat to face Severus, who was already doing the same. “Give me your right arm, please.”

Nizar lifts an eyebrow at the buttons he has to deal with before undoing the sleeve of Severus’s coat, then the shirt underneath. “How do you cope with so many blasted buttons?”

“Patience,” Severus replies. “I didn’t realize you needed my bare arm.”

“I should have mentioned that, yes.” Nizar frowns, tilts his head, and then places his right hand on Severus’s arm and uses his left hand to grasp Severus’s hand. There; that feels correct. He lifts his head and follows the feel of magic that ties him into the castle.

Severus’s arm jerks in his hold when he wraps the first bit of magic around him. “Painful?” Nizar asks. It shouldn’t be, but he’s working mostly on instinct.

“No, just surprising.”

Nizar nods and continues, shutting his eyes and reaching with thought and intent. This part of Hogwarts’ magic has nothing to do with wands.

He ties Severus into the castle’s magic with tiny strands, checks to make sure the work _feels_ right, and then lets go of Severus’s arm before leaning back against the sofa. “There.”

Severus is staring down at his arm when Nizar opens his eyes. “That is…different.”

“I didn’t connect you into the magic in a way that means you get it all at once. That might actually hurt, or drive you mad from the intensity. This will take about a month to come to fruition.”

“Gradual awareness.” Severus begins buttoning his shirtsleeve again. “I suppose that Apparition isn’t possible until that process is complete.”

“Probably not, but I don’t know if I ever tested it during the adjustment phase. Tea?”

“God, yes,” Severus says, reaching for the pot. “More things happened this evening than I bargained for.”

“You’re not wrong.” Nizar waits until Severus passes him a full cup. “I met Voldemort this evening.”

Severus goes still. “Did you.”

“Yes. Still arrogant, looks like a walking corpse, and truly does not die if you hit him with the Killing Curse.” Nizar drops one of the American sugar cubes into his tea out of curiosity and stirs it in.

“You—” Severus starts laughing in near-silence. “You struck Voldemort with the Killing Curse on your very first meeting?”

“He was rude!” Nizar says in explanation, starting to smile. “The cowardly bastard ran from me when I asked him a simple question.”

“Voldemort ran.” Severus gives him a curious look. “What did you say?”

“I asked if I sliced him into itty bitty globs of flesh, would those bits of flesh reform into his corpse-like self, or would there just be lots of tiny undead parts lying around.”

“He underestimated you, so you scared the hell out of him.” Severus raises his teacup. “I approve.”

“I thought you might.” Nizar decides that maybe he can learn to like sugar cubes in his tea. It’s an interesting change of flavor. “He’ll be more cautious next time.”

“I could take you with me the next time he summons me,” Severus offers. “The residence he hides in within Little Hangleton is under a Fidelius Charm and Unplottable.”

“No,” Nizar says at once, sitting up as he gets a flash of a terrible ache, pain in the soul, and shouting. “That would go badly. We’re not doing that.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. Flashes of insight, Severus.” Nizar swallows, trying to shake off what he’d felt and heard. “Besides, I don’t yet know what’s keeping him alive. Until I can figure that out, it’s not worth the risk."

 


	9. Defence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who do I kill to rectify that blunder?”  
> “Lucius Malfoy.”  
> “I am fine with that.”

The elves bring his clothes back on Saturday, along with a small bag of fabric scraps. Wearing them feels odd, but not as odd as the damned pants. “That’s why,” Nizar says to Filky, who is eying him like he’s about to blaspheme her work. “The pants are to protect against _zippers_. What a stupid idea.” He does see how they could be useful, but it takes the entire damned weekend to get used to the sensation of two layers of cloth at his hips. He is still not impressed with the twentieth century.

The roster for those attending his classes arrives with lunch. He unrolls it, curious, and wonders that it seems so short. He counts the names while trying to consume a sandwich and not lose half of its filling, and is scowling by the time he’s done. Two hundred eighty-one students once he includes those who aren’t scheduled for N.E.W.T classes.

Nizar finishes his lunch and then Apparates down to a shadowy corner of Severus’s office.  After making sure no students are lurking in the room, Nizar announces himself.

Severus glances up from the paperwork on his desk. “You could knock on the door like a normal human being.”

“I could, but I really wanted an answer to a question,” Nizar replies. “Severus, why are there only two hundred eighty-one students in this entire school?”

“Ah.” Severus puts down his quill. “War paranoia. Well over half of Britain’s magical children are being sent to other schools in Europe rather than risk Hogwarts, even though the Dark Lord’s return is merely a rumored threat.”

“Three hundred students was normal in _my_ day.” Nizar leans against the closest wall. “Granted, we were hosting for the northern kingdoms, the kingdoms in the Iberian Peninsula, and the Holy Roman Empire—and that’s taking into consideration the fact that many magical children were still schooled at home. The idea that Hogwarts is hosting less than three hundred students in this era is mind-boggling.”

Severus nods. “I am selfish enough to be glad the number is low. Teaching that many students is still a lot of work. I assume you won’t find it a hardship, then.”

“No. I was mentally preparing for triple that number based on what I’ve heard about Britain’s population size.” Nizar sighs. “Right. Sorry for barging in. I need to go…” He waves the roster around. “Deal with this.”

Severus glances down at the scroll he’s been obliterating with red ink. “I would like to have some warning, perhaps by Patronus, but I don’t mind your arrival by Apparition.”

Nizar hesitates. “My Patronus does not make many people happy.”

“Now I’m intrigued.” Severus folds his hands under his chin. “What is it?”

Nizar casts the charm and smiles when the basilisk Patronus appears in front of Severus’s desk. The basilisk is almost as tall as the archways in the office.

“Thank you for warning me.” Severus is even paler than usual. “Thus I expected something horrible by modern standards, and you did not disappoint.”

“This is what Kanza will resemble in one hundred years,” Nizar says, running his hand along the dry-mist sensation of a corporeal Patronus. “But this is not the only thing bothering you.”

Severus shakes his head. “No. The Dark Lord has somehow acquired a very _large_ pit viper that is…” He frowns at Nizar’s Patronus. “Perhaps half the size of that. She is capable of eating grown men alive, and unfortunately, I’ve borne witness to it. It isn’t pleasant.”

“Well, my Patronus won’t eat you, and a true basilisk won’t eat humans. They claim we taste terrible,” Nizar says. “You didn’t mention anything about a giant snake before.”

“It was a very recent acquaintance. The Sunday before Hallowe’en, amid the Dark Lord’s ideas regarding after-midnight festivities.  I’ve been a bit preoccupied since then.”

Nizar allows his Patronus to fade. “No, I suppose it isn’t every day that someone falls out of a painting and disrupts your entire life.”

“Disrupts.” Severus looks at him as if he’s said something exceptionally daft. “Oh, no. My friend whose company I enjoy is no longer trapped in a portrait. However shall I cope?”

“By drowning yourself in sarcasm, I suppose,” Nizar says. “Shall I Apparate down to your quarters at nine-thirty this evening? It will keep the rumor mill to a dull roar.”

“Zabini appeared to show tact for once. As of yet, there are no rumors flying about concerning you except for how evil you plan to be come Monday morning.” Severus smirks at him. “Did you finally decide to give Muggle fiction another go?”

“Someone stuffed a copy of Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_ in with the magical fiction. Pretty certain that man was not a magician, but I always wanted to read the book—especially with all of the vampire jokes flying about in recent years,” Nizar says.

Severus lets out an amused snort. “I am not a vampire, Nizar.”

Nizar grins. “No, but I hope you do like biting.”

Severus regards him curiously. “You are aware that you said that out loud, yes?”

Nizar turns his grin to a look of profound innocence. “Which part?” he asks, and Apparates back to his office upstairs.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus finds himself staring at the place Nizar just vacated. That was…that was an indirect, yet very effective means of announcing intent. He has no intentions of pursuing such yet, and he doubts Nizar will, either, not when it hasn’t even been a full week since Hallowe’en.

It is nice to know that when he does decide to investigate that possibility, the attempt will not be unwelcome. They’ve known each other for twenty-four years, after all. If that isn’t enough basis for some attempt at a relationship, then Severus truly does not know what else could possibly qualify.

Nizar is prompt and arrives in Severus’s quarters at nine-thirty that evening. “You didn’t bring the book?” Severus asks.

“No, not right now.” Nizar flops down on his sofa and leans his head back so he can stare at the ceiling. “Do you have that flaming alcoholic nonsense?”

“The one you were complaining about?” Severus studies the man, who seems to have completely exhausted himself between noon and now. “What did you do?”

“Oh. Duplicating books. I refuse to teach a class without giving students _something_ to read, and it isn’t going to be those rubbish textbooks they were assigned. Some of them only learn the concept behind the spellwork by reading about it, anyway.” Nizar scrubs his face with both hands. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.”

“You do realize we make students buy their own textbooks, yes?”

Nizar glares at him. “Yes, and I told you in 1973 that it was a stupid fucking rule when there are teachers in this school capable of casting a basic duplication spell.”

Severus shakes his head and pours two glasses after retrieving the bottle. “Nizar, I only know that spell because you told me of its existence when I started teaching. It isn’t taught at Hogwarts.”

“Who do I kill to rectify that blunder?”

He hands Nizar a glass. “Lucius Malfoy.”

Nizar swallows half of the Firewhiskey at once. “I am fine with that.”

“Draco Malfoy might not be,” Severus points out, watching Nizar make a face over the taste. “I will repeat that you’re meant to savor that, not drown yourself in it.”

Nizar doesn’t smile. “If war breaks out, most of them are going to lose at least one parent.”

“Never mind. Now _I_ want to drown myself in it,” Severus mutters.

Nizar regards the rest of the alcohol in his glass. “Their parents chose to side with Voldemort, discovered the reality, and decided to go along with it anyway. There are two hundred eighty-one students in Hogwarts who can still choose otherwise.”

Severus eyes him and decides to change the subject. “Are you nervous about Monday?”

“No. I’m _frustrated_ , which is infinitely worse since I’ve yet to teach a single class.” Nizar frowns. “I don’t think Monday is going to improve things.”

“Why do you think I wanted the job?”

Nizar smiles at him and finishes the Firewhiskey. “If I’m frustrated, then you would kill the lot of them.”

“Absolute nonsense,” Severus replies. “Neville Longbottom wouldn’t be melting cauldrons.”

“That child has melted more cauldrons in a Potions class than anyone else in the history of this school, and I’m probably being literal,” Nizar says. “You know, aside from Longbottom’s full-fledged terror of you, maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way.”

“Not letting him brew at all?” Severus asks flatly.

Nizar rolls his eyes. “He isn’t getting the assigned potion correct, but to melt his bloody cauldron that many times? He is doing something _else_ very right. That destructive capability is something that could be harnessed. It just needs to be led away from standard Potions.”

Severus stares at Nizar for a moment. It’s an intriguing idea, but will only succeed if Longbottom can mentally function for long enough for Severus to figure out just what in the hell he’s doing. “I’ll think on it.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Monday morning at breakfast, Nizar is properly introduced to the school at large. Dumbledore is entirely accurate as to his origins while still being amusingly vague about the entire process, which is entertaining. Nizar knows that man was not a Slytherin, but he fakes it very well.

Nizar stands up and waves when prompted, and then sits back down between Minerva McGonagall and Aurora Sinistra. After listening to the whispers, he leans closer to McGonagall. “They keep saying I’m hot. Does that mean I’m on fire and just haven’t realized it yet?”

McGonagall’s lips twitch. “It’s modern slang that’s been creeping in from overseas, Professor Slytherin. They are calling you handsome.”

Nizar grimaces and tries not to lean away from the table. “Oh. That’s great.”

“Concerned about teaching?” Aurora asks, sounding a touch vicious.

“Teaching? No. I just don’t want them to flirt with me. Leaving aside that I’m a thousand years old, I’m also forty-two years old. A student flirting with me is creepy and so very unwanted. Also, most of the ones whispering about it are girls. Not into dalliances with women—or is that inappropriate again? People couldn’t make up their minds a few centuries back if gender was important or not, which is stupid, because it wasn’t a problem a thousand years ago at all.”

“It isn’t inappropriate. Merely useful gossip fodder,” McGonagall replies.

“I like you already,” Nizar says, which earns him a faint smile. He can charm people. He can also kill people, but verbal defence is an art form and he is _good_ at it. He does lean back in his chair to be able to see Severus. “How have I not heard temperature-related slang in the Common Room before now?”

Severus smirks at Minerva. “Because my Slytherins have more dignity than to begin using every bit of new slang they trip over on the street.”

“And of course, it being a Muggle word…” Aurora mutters.

“Oh, no. The horror!” Nizar mock-gasps. “Severus, quick—we have to stop using every single language on the _planet_ ,” he declares, which causes Severus to choke down unexpected laughter, Filius to turn purple with the effort of not cackling aloud, and for Minerva to spew tea onto her plate.

Minerva wipes her face with her napkin while giving Nizar a stern look. “You are going to be entertaining, aren’t you, Professor Slytherin?”

“If by entertaining, you mean a complete pain in the backside? Certainly, Professor McGonagall,” Nizar replies. He smiles when Aurora says something rude under her breath about Slytherins, but there is far less heat to her words than there had been before.

“By gender not being a problem a thousand years ago, you mean what, exactly?” Poppy asks.

“He means that, ridiculous dalliances aside, we weren’t using the word _witch_ or _wizard_ to describe those with magic,” the librarian, Irma, puts in testily.

“We were all using a variant on a Latin term— _magician_. That one has not a whit to do with one’s personal bits. Except for a few particular spells, gender doesn’t have a damned thing to do with magic,” Nizar says. “I really, really hated it when the Old English terms for witch and wizard were snatched up and applied in the 1500s. Then by the 1700s, the dormitories were divided as if there were only two genders and only one means of having a relationship with another. It just got worse from there.”

Filius is snickering. “I told you—a natural teacher.”

Nizar stands up after draining his teacup. “I confess nothing. Excuse me; I have to go ensure that most of you lose money this morning by decidedly not terrorizing all of my classes today.”

He left a note on the door of the old Defence classroom on Sunday evening, directing everyone upstairs to that corridor in the seventh floor. At least students were already familiar with the tapestry of some odd magician by the name of Barnabas the Barmy, who was apparently trying to teach cave trolls to dance for reasons that completely escape Nizar. He makes certain to arrive first, ducking into a hidden back stairwell that smells like centuries of dust with a hint of basilisk. Jalaf must have been using the passage to feast on Hogwarts’ rodent population. Nizar doesn’t use the stairs; he Apparates directly to the classroom and props open the door.

He has a room full of modern student desks awaiting them when the first students file in, looking around curiously. Nizar leans against his desk, watching as they study the room, the empty portrait frames, the torches, and Nizar himself. All four Houses are combined in each lecture class per year, which is a relief—he didn’t want to repeat himself. His fifth-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws seem fine with each other’s company. It’s the Slytherins and Gryffindors who are leery, bordering on hostile as they try to get as far away from their opposing House as possible. Nizar does nod at each greeting he receives from the ten Slytherin students, and a couple of students from the other three Houses politely say hello.

“I didn’t know there was a door in this hallway,” Pansy says. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“It hides. I’ve no idea why,” Nizar tells them, reminding himself that he needs to refer to his Slytherins by their family names, not their given name. “Please have a seat. We only have fifty minutes of class time, and we’re going to make the most of it. Oh, and please tell me who you are the first time I call on you if we’ve not yet met. I really need to be able to match faces to names.”

Once all thirty-seven students of the fifth-year batch have arrived, Nizar gestures with one hand to shut the classroom door. “Hello. Thanks to the fact that magicians are the worst gossips I’ve ever encountered, you all know who I am…or you think you do. Properly introduced, I am Nizar Hariwalt de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castilla y Moravia. And first question goes to you, Hufflepuff.”

A young man with a shock of blond hair blushes. “Roger Malone, sir. Uh, where is Moravia?”

“The Kingdom of Moray, which is where this school used to dwell before Scotland took over the entirety of the northern part of the isle,” Nizar says, and moves on to his next victim.

“I’m Sue Li, sir. I don’t get the Casa de Deslizarse part.” That’s a Ravenclaw with features from the East; he’ll have to ask her where her family is from later, if only out of curiosity.

“In the school’s first years, the primary languages in the region were Gaelic—which is now Irish Gaelic—Pictish, and Cumbric, both of which were in decline. The Gaelic speakers did all right with my family’s name, but everyone else…” Nizar smiles. “Castilian names weren’t common here. We compacted it to deSlizarse in an attempt to keep some semblance of it, and still it was often turned into Slytherin, a word that made more sense to them. Salazar and I both gave up after a few years and just let them use it.”

All of the Ravenclaws, Miss Granger, Vaisey, Miss Greengrass, and a few other students light up like someone applied _lux_ to their blood. “Can you speak those languages?” Granger asks in excitement.

Nizar shakes his head. “I can’t remember them. Old English, yes, but at least that survived. There was a disruption on the Preservation Charm that was supposed to make certain I didn’t die in a painting, and a lot of my memories from the early centuries are gone. They’ll come back eventually, but in the meantime, I own a lot of books that no one can read. Oh, speaking of books.” Nizar gets out his wand long enough to cast a retrieval spell, making a book appear on every student’s desk. “That’s now your primary textbook for the year, though you can refer to that other one if you need to. Your old book was largely rubbish, but it has some bits of useful information in it.”

“We’re going to be…talking through this class period, sir?” Malfoy ventures.

“Partly. I fell out of a portrait. There is no avoiding the fact that most of you won’t be able to pay a bit of attention to the subject matter until the portrait part is dealt with,” Nizar replies in a wry voice. “For anyone who cannot take the suspense, living in a portrait for nine hundred seventy-eight years had a few interesting points and long stretches of interminable _boredom_. I don’t recommend it.”

A Ravenclaw raises his hand. “Terry Boot, sir. Why _were_ you in a painting for nearly a thousand years?”

“We’ll get to that. Now.” Nizar straightens up. “Things that are relevant to this class: I was Hogwarts’ first teacher who concentrated in teaching Defence to students of all ages, of all Houses. At the time, that was unusual, as students were otherwise taught by teachers who shared their House once they were Sorted. I designed this room to be what was needed, when I needed it, which varies depending on the lesson. My office is there,” he gestures over his shoulder, “and when I’m available, the classroom door will be open. If it’s not, the door simply isn’t there, and you’ll know I’m unavailable. If it’s an emergency, you can strike one particular brick on the wall outside four times, and the room will let me know. I’ll show you that stone at the end of class.

“Now, after reviewing your original textbooks, and hearing about what progress you’ve made, I’m very glad that none of you are _dead_ yet.” Nizar points when a dark-skinned Hufflepuff raises her hand. “Yes, Miss…?”

“It’s Megan Jones, sir. And, er, well. Cedric Diggory is. Last year.”

“You’re right. That was cruel of me to forget, and I apologize to everyone present in your House,” Nizar says. “However, he knew of no way to escape the Killing Curse. I hope to at least prepare you enough so that if you ever face the same situation, you have a better chance of survival.”

“We’re not that bad,” a Gryffindor with a distinct Scots accent says.

“Seamus Finnigan, right?” Nizar asks.

Finnigan nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how to defend yourself against the Killing Curse, Mister Finnigan?”

“Uh—” Finnigan looks alarmed by the question.

Zabini frowns. “Er, but…you can’t, sir.”

“Raise your hand if you share Mister Zabini’s opinion.” Nizar resists the urge to swear under his breath when everyone raises their hands. “Have none of you ever heard of ducking? Seeking cover behind solid objects? The Killing Curse cannot penetrate stone or metal, nor can it pass through hardwood bound in iron. You might have noticed that every door in this castle is constructed that way.”

Granger raises her hand. “When should we have learned this, sir?”

It’s an intelligent question, even if it’s frustrating. “Your school governing board seems to frown on anyone teaching you lot about real life in your first year, but you most certainly should have learned the basics of _dodging_ any given spell cast in your direction in your second year.”

“We kind of tried that,” Tracey Davis offers. “There was a dueling club for about a day, sir.”

“An entire day.” Nizar blinks a few times. “Wait, is this the incident with the serpent and all of you panicking over a bit of Parseltongue?”

A great deal of the students in the room look abashed. “Yes, sir,” Finnigan says, wincing.

“Our Defence teacher that year was rubbish.” That would be Ron Weasley; Nizar has learned that if a student is a ginger, they’re likely to be a Weasley. “And so was the one before him, the one who was possessed by You-Know-Who.”

“I’m Fay Dunbar, sir,” the next Gryffindor says. “Professor Lupin was excellent, but our parents don’t want him around because he’s a werewolf.”

“Everyone’s gone daft in ten centuries.” Nizar sighs, seeing fear on so many faces. “Did Professor Lupin bite anyone during his teaching tenure? Did he ever deliberately endanger a student?”

Nizar watches as Granger and Weasley exchange nervous glances, but they don’t say anything. Instead, it’s Malfoy who bleats, “Werewolves are dangerous creatures, sir!”

“Were _you_ bitten by Professor Lupin, Mister Malfoy?” Nizar asks.

Malfoy ducks down in his seat. “No, sir.”

“Anyone else?” Nizar waits as the class slowly shake their heads. “Good. Stop insulting people with a contagious disease by calling them creatures, or I’ll assign you a detention with your Head of House. You can explain your lapse in common decency to them.”

Nizar waits until he sees disgruntled agreement on those faces who were previously fearful. The Slytherins will take more work, but they’re not a lost cause. “Moving along then. This room has safeties that engage the moment that door shuts. The Killing Curse can be performed within these walls, but it will not kill anyone. Those same safety measures will prevent you from suffering fatal or permanent damage from any other spell that is cast, though you’ll definitely be aware that in a real-world situation, you would be whimpering on the ground, dying, or dead. I say this to warn you that you are desperately behind on the knowledge you should have gained at this point—and yes, I am going by my standards, not your stupid, useless books. Boggarts in third year? That’s first-year introductory defence! You should all know how to duel properly by now; you should know how to cast a proper Patronus; you should know how to use your surroundings as part of your defence; you should be ready to begin the basics of offensive dueling. Oh, and verbal defence is also supposed to be part of your studies, as are healing spells and mental self-defence. I’ve discovered that most of you are very, very bad at verbal defence, by the way.”

“Anthony Goldstein, sir,” a scowling Hufflepuff says when Nizar points at him. “Then what does sixth year cover?”

“Refinement of every lesson learned in previous years,” Nizar answers. “You should be ready to pass those ridiculously named N.E.W.T. tests. In seventh year, you prove you’ve learned Defence properly by teaching other students how to defend themselves.”

“My brothers say seventh-year Defence is supposed to be about figuring out how it can apply to the rest of your life.”

“Everything you learn in this school applies to the rest of your life,” Nizar tells Weasley. “Every. Single. Thing. If you want career counseling, go speak to your Head of House. It isn’t my job to make you employable. It’s my job to see to it that you can defend yourself against any level of threat in the magical world, including that noseless corpse strutting around calling himself Voldemort.”

Nizar rolls his eyes at the gasps and the fear generated by saying that name. “My however-many-times great-grandnephew is not that terrifying. Just because he has figured out a way to not die does not make him undefeatable, it makes him exceptionally inconvenient.”

“Sir. Er, I’m Susan Bones,” a nervous Hufflepuff says. “Are you saying You-Know-Who is…he’s really back?”

“Your Headmaster told you as much last year.” Nizar gives her a somber look and nods. “Yes, he’s back, and yes, he is a threat that you should take very, very seriously. However, before we continue, we have a few issues that I’m going to be addressing with every single lecture class I have today.”

Nizar lets his expression settle into a disappointed frown. “All four of the Founders would be _very_ disappointed in the animosity between all the Houses in Hogwarts, but most especially the ridiculous, spiteful war occurring between Gryffindor and Slytherin.”

“You can’t know that,” Crabbe says at once, looking smug. Nizar always did think the child was a few thoughts shy of a functional brain.

“Well, Godric was my friend, and Salazar was my brother. However, you don’t need to take my word for it. Right?” Nizar glances over at the wall where the four portraits are hung, watching as his lecture guests appear in their frames.

“Oh, boy,” Nott whispers, wide-eyed.

“Fifth-year Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws—this is Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Godric Gryffindor,” Nizar introduces them. “Ages forty-one, twenty-five, twenty-seven, and thirty-two, respectively, though their portraits were updated to reflect the knowledge of each Founder later in life.”

“I’ve seen them around the castle!” Boot exclaims. “I just didn’t realize who they were!”

“That was the point,” Rowena says dryly. “You’re all used to our likenesses painted in 1035, the portraits found in the main hall downstairs.”

“And for some reason, that lot of portraits hasn’t aged well,” Godric adds. “They’re either cranky, silent, or both, so you lot have not really had an introduction to who _we_ really are.”

“Your portrait in particular, Sal, is…not so personable,” Nizar says. “It spouts a lot of nonsense.”

Salazar shrugs. “I’ve no idea what happened there, _hermanito_.”

“Wow.” Kellah Shafiq smiles. “You two really do look a lot alike!”

“We heard that a lot,” Salazar says, and then frowns at the Slytherins in the room. “The nonsense you have been getting up to in recent centuries is disgraceful, and it’s going to end.”

“Brave and true does not mean ‘hex your allies in the hallway when their backs are turned.’” Godric scowls. “Where did you idiots get the idea that you’re enemies?”

“Because—because you are, uh, sir. Both of you. The Sorting Hat said you fought, and Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts because of it,” Weasley says.

“Absolute rubbish,” Godric replies. “We had a disagreement, but it did not end our friendship even if he departed. Even if we had fought and parted on unkind terms, why would that mean your Houses should be so divided?”

“Even you, badgers, are guilty in this. You shun the other Houses instead of showing them what you are capable of, or you retreat from them in fear.” Helga lifts an eyebrow. “Please do bear in mind that I am a Viking, my dears. Cedric Diggory was an excellent example of a true Hufflepuff, and you would all do well to remember that.”

“And you.” Rowena stares at the Ravenclaws in disapproval. “You put your academic goals above all else, so you are easily fooled the moment an unkind word passes another’s lips. True wisdom is being educated in all manners of life, not just scholarly pursuits.”

“In short, please get your heads out of your arses,” Godric says.

“Language, Godric!” Nizar glares at the portrait. “They’re underage. Behave yourself!”

To the vexation and confusion of ten Gryffindors, Godric winces and nods. “Right, yes. Sorry, Nizar.”

“Thank you. As for the rivalry between your House and Salazar’s, I don’t think anyone has an answer for that.” Nizar can’t even remember when the rivalry started. It’s all he remembers, but he knows it wasn’t always so.

“Then…what did happen?” Granger asks.

“I left Hogwarts after a disagreement, yes, but because Godric, Rowena, and Helga were worried that my quest was in vain. I was seeking a way to help my brother in the task given to him—to stop our descendent, nearly one thousand years hence, from destroying our world. Yes, we knew about Voldemort in our time, due to my talents at scrying,” Salazar tells them. “I have no idea if I succeeded. I am merely a portrait, a recording of what was before that departure.”

“I thought—everyone has always assumed it was meant to be Harry’s job to stop You-Know-Who,” Granger ventures.

Nizar scowls. Putting such a burden on Potter’s shoulders has caused a lot of trouble, and not just for Potter. He points at Zabini. “You! It has just become your sole responsibility to save the entire wizarding world. How do you feel?”

Zabini’s dark skin turns pale. “Like I’m going to need a new pair of pants, sir!”

“I’m sure Mister Potter felt much the same way, all the time,” Nizar says. “Adults were expecting a child to save them, and they were not even giving that child a proper education in order to survive the experience. Everyone in the twentieth century has lost their minds.”

“Have we really?” Bulstrode doesn’t sound combative, just curious.

“I raised three children to adulthood,” Nizar says. “At age fourteen, when they began their magical apprenticeships in their chosen crafts, they knew as much about Defence as you should by your seventh year—and they were three years younger. Lucky for you, I’m here to fix it. It’ll be fun.”

Weasley lifts the book and holds it in the air. “This says it’s written by someone named Brice deSlizarse. Why should we trust a book written by a Slytherin?”

Nizar glances at Godric, who is glaring at Weasley. “Congratulations, Mister Weasley. You’ve just insulted the Founder of your own house.”

One of his Gryffindor girls raises her hand. “I’m Lavender Brown. Uh, sir? How?” she asks, since Weasley is on the verge of sputtering again.

“Brice was Nizar’s son, so you’ve insulted _him_ , too, even if he won’t speak of it,” Godric growls. “But Brice deSlizarse was _my_ apprentice, you daft fools. He was very good at what he did, and he saved many lives.”

“You complete git,” Parvati Patil hisses at Weasley, who turns bright red.

“Sorry,” Weasley mutters, trying to hide behind Finnigan and Granger.

Nizar takes pity on him. “Your grudging apology is accepted. Now, are there any other relevant questions before you all begin the hardest lesson you’ll have for the rest of the semester?”

“Hardest _first_?” Vaisey yelps.

Nizar glances around the room. “Yes. That way the rest of the year will seem easier in comparison. Think of it as a kindness, as you probably wouldn’t wish to be trying to learn the hardest lesson in the middle of last minute studying for your O.W.L.s. The lot of you should have learned the uses and basic incantation for casting a Patronus in third year, and mastered it by the beginning of your fourth. You’re two blasted years behind.”

“That’s N.E.W.T.-level magic,” Sue Li says.

“Only by shoddy standards.” Nizar crosses his arms. “Someone tell me what a Patronus is useful for.”

Granger is the first to raise her hand. “They’re the only defence against a Dementor.”

“Correct. Another?”

“I’m Mandy Brocklehurst, sir,” a Ravenclaw speaks up. “You can send messages with a Patronus!”

“Also correct. Anyone else?” Nizar asks. It’s not surprising when no one has an answer. If anything, Granger, Greengrass, and the Ravenclaws all look thwarted. “Dementors are not the only creatures who fear a corporeal Patronus. Now, let’s talk about the incantation, its purpose, and the forms it can take—along with the other magical creatures in our world who aren’t fond of magical guardians.”

Nizar has seen all of Hogwarts’ fifth-, fourth-, third-, and second-year students by lunch. He also wants to strangle whoever scheduled every single lecture class for the same day.

“Oh, that would be Dolores,” Dumbledore informs him when Nizar mutters about it under his breath. “I do believe she was trying to be efficient.”

“By losing her voice every Monday? I’m sure that must have cheered everyone at dinner,” Nizar says.

“Oh, she didn’t spend her lecture blocks speaking. Heaven forbid she do something strenuous.” Minerva puts her goblet down with far too much force. “She would spend perhaps ten minutes speaking, and then assign them reading.”

“What about the second class?” Nizar asks. Severus loathes the infamous Double set, if only because it’s always Slytherin-Gryffindor paired together.

“The very same thing,” Minerva answers. “Two hours of reading and writing…and nothing else.”

If the fork in his hand had been pewter instead of steel, he would have bent the thing in half. “You are making me regret not killing that woman.”

“You got her sacked, and she is awaiting trial. I am content with that,” Minerva replies.

“You’re late,” Nizar says to Severus when he finally arrives.

Severus sits down, a growl lodged in his throat. “The Ravenclaws were in an experimental mood. The results were not favorable.”

Nizar looks in the direction of the Ravenclaw table and sees at least three singed faces. “Oh.”

“And how was your first morning of teaching?” Severus asks, the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.

“I spent most of it talking while taking note of who is going to try to kill whom.”

Aurora glances over at him, frowning. “Is that really necessary, Professor Slytherin?”

Nizar raises an eyebrow. “Do students in your classes point wands at each other?”

“Well…no,” Aurora admits.

“Exactly.” Nizar lifts the tea he’s been drinking, trying to decide if he actually wants the food on his plate. His appetite has been utterly soured by four hours of battling stubborn disbelief. “Mine do, and there are a _lot_ of rivalries in this school. Rowena is on the verge of losing her temper, and that was a very rare event.”

“Rowena Ravenclaw?” Filius perks up, leaning forward in his chair to look at Nizar. “I didn’t notice the portraits missing from the main hall.”

“They’re not. I have my own.” At some point, Nizar also needs to go yell at a drunken bit of felt Sorting Hat.

“You have your own portraits of the Founders?” Minerva is gazing at him in interest. “I’d love to see them.”

“Stop by the classroom on the seventh floor at…” Nizar mentally reviews the timetable he’s still getting used to. “After four o’clock. You can talk to them all you like.”

“You’re going to have everyone who isn’t teaching at that hour cramming themselves into your classroom,” Severus warns him.

“They want to see the disappearing classroom, anyway.”

The first-years Nizar sees after lunch is the easiest class yet. These students are too happy about Umbridge’s departure to care overly much about who Nizar is, especially as they’ve not had time to soak in the House prejudices to the same extent.

After that are the sixth-years, the first N.E.W.T. group who could decide to take the class as an elective instead of a requirement. Nizar thinks that is a _stupid_ idea considering how little an education these students received in Defence, but he can only help those who are in attendance…few though they are. One Hufflepuff, four Ravenclaws, one Slytherin, and four Gryffindors.

Nizar waits for the group to introduce themselves, which doesn’t take long. “Katie Bell, Kinjal Bhatia, Raquel Brown, Eddie Carmichael, Cho Chang, Marietta Edgecomb, Nandini Johar, Maxine O’Flaherty, Hermani Roshan, and Jack Sloper. Ten of you. Well, that’s depressing.”

“Well, sir, after the Death Eater last year as our teacher, most of us were leery,” Roshan says.

Carmichael nods. “Turned out we were right to be, what with the pink toad.”

“Please stop being both misogynist and hateful towards toads,” Nizar requests, trying not to rest his face in his hands.

“What does that mean?” Sloper asks.

“Stop being a dick,” Kinjal says flatly, and then tries to sink down in her seat. “Er, sir.”

“I heard nothing,” Nizar assures her, amused. “I take it none of you learned anything of substance in the first two months of this term?”

“How to hate pink cardigans and pictures of kittens, sir,” Chang answers him, which causes three others to stifle sudden laughter.

“Having witnessed both, I don’t blame you at all, and I happen to like cats.” Nizar leans against his desk. “Your first lesson is long overdue: how to cast a Patronus.”

“Oh, thank _God_!” Bell exclaims, and then blushes. “Uh—”

Nizar smiles. “Still heard nothing. Today is theory, tomorrow is practice.”

The seventh-years present him with a larger class, but only by two students. “Tamsin Applebee, Natalie Fairbourne, Sarah Fawcett, Herbert Fleet, Amrish Gupta, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Ona Parangyo, Poonima Shah, Alicia Spinnet, Fred Weasley, and George Weasley,” Nizar repeats after a similar round of introductions. Two Hufflepuffs, only one Ravenclaw, three Slytherins, and six Gryffindors. “Well, you lot are certainly living up to the House stereotypes. Does everyone else have something against learning Defence?”

“Not really, sir,” Parangyo says. “It’s just that the other teachers in the subject have been, well…”

“Idiot, idiot, idiot possessed by You-Know-Who, fraudulent idiot, intelligent werewolf, Death Eater, toad,” George Weasley ticks off on his fingers. “We’re taking bets on what sort of idiot you’ll turn out to be, Professor.”

“Do you want to learn how to cast a proper Patronus or not?” Nizar asks dryly.

Fred Weasley throws his hands into the air. “Not an idiot!”

Spinnet raises her hand. “Who else is learning this, Professor? I ran into Katie Bell before class, and she told me you’d said it was a lesson long overdue.”

“Third-years and up,” Nizar answers. “Even under the old and really, really gods-awful curriculum, you should all have learned this last year. I take it the infamous Death Eater didn’t bother?”

Jordon tilts his head. “Actually, he didn’t even mention it.”

“Probably wouldn’t have looked good for him if he wasn’t capable of demonstrating it,” Nizar says.

“Can _you_ demonstrate a Patronus, sir?” Johnson asks, giving him a challenging look that makes Shah roll her eyes.

“Yes.” Nizar considers it before he reaches up, hissing out a request that makes everyone but the Slytherins and most of the Gryffindors blanch. “Quidditch with the Parselmouth?” he asks them.

The Weasleys nod in tandem. “It’s just language,” Fred says.

“No harm in a bit of hissing,” George agrees.

“I suppose that depends on who is doing the hissing.” Nizar holds out his hand while Kanza scents the air, blinking at them in curiosity. Everyone meets her gaze at least once, though the wide grin on Shah’s face nearly makes the Hufflepuffs change their minds.

“Your Patronus is a snake, Professor?” Fairbourne asks politely.

“This is Kanza. She’s an infant basilisk,” Nizar says, and rolls his eyes when everyone but his Slytherins try to retreat without bothering to stand up first. “You’ve all looked into her eyes, and none of you are dead or Petrified. What does that teach you?”

“That she’s…bad at being a basilisk?” Applebee ventures.

Kanza rears up and glares at the Hufflepuff. “ _I am not_!”

“Don’t insult the basilisk. It’s bad manners,” Nizar says. “Fortunately, she has better manners than you. Miss Shah, since you looked forward to this moment so much, please inform your classmates about a specific trait a basilisk has.”

“A basilisk has two sets of eyelids, sir,” Shah says, trying not to look pleased with herself. “The first set reveals their eyes, and their gaze in that condition is harmless. The second set of eyelids hides the part of their gaze that can kill.”

“Thank you.” Nizar waits until his students begin to calm down. “Another trait of a basilisk—without the interference of a fool, such as, oh, Voldemort…” He ignores the class-wide flinch. “A basilisk is a protector. They’re often tied to familial bloodlines and guard those families, or in the case of the basilisk who lived here for one thousand years without killing anyone, a school. _Thank you, dearest,_ ” he says, allowing Kanza to return to her favorite place.

“Your Patronus is a basilisk?” Fleet asks in disbelief.

“Yes.” Nizar smiles. “Do you still want to see it?”

Jordan is the first to nod. Fearless bloody Gryffindor. “I might need new pants afterwards, but yes!”

Nizar gets out his wand and casts the spell nonverbally, watching their faces as the century-old basilisk Patronus appears. “Anyone in need of new pants?”

“Maybe,” Fawcett says, blinking a few times in astonishment. The rest of her classmates are staring or gaping at the Patronus. “Are protectors always terrifying?”

“Sometimes it’s a necessity to be so.” Nizar dismisses his Patronus. “Now, you and your sixth-year classmates have a challenge the other years do not: once you learn to cast a corporeal Patronus, you then have to learn to cast it without speaking the spell aloud. There are things aside from Dementors who do not like Patroni, and giving away your intent would not be helpful.”

When the class is over, Nizar points to Gupta, Shah, and Poonima in turn, then points down at the ground to indicate that they stay. They gather up their things but linger as the others file out of the classroom—all except for the Weasley twins. “Out,” Nizar says.

George shrugs. “We’re just trying to be fair.”

“You call them _your_ Slytherins. Wouldn’t be all sporting if you and those portraits ask for a cessation of hostilities and then reward points behind the other House’s backs,” Fred says.

Nizar gestures for the door to shut in a way that causes it to slam closed, making the twins glance at it in concern. “The two of you have earned yourselves quite the reputation in your previous six years at Hogwarts. You’re complete miscreants who have also been observed to know what it means to bloody well be _discreet_. What I say to these three goes no further.”

The twins look at each other and nod. “Sure,” Fred agrees.

“That includes not telling family.”

George shrugs. “We can’t tell our Mum even a third of what we get up to, Professor. We’re sort of used to that.”

“I’m sure she’s very proud,” Nizar says, and turns his attention back to his Slytherins. “Can any of you tell me why I only have Muggle-born Slytherins in my N.E.W.T.-level Defence classes?”

“Muggle—mmph!” Fred starts to say, only to be cut off my his brother’s hand over his mouth. Nizar nods at George in approval.

“Well…partly the shoddy teachers,” Shah says.

Parangyo glares at Shah. “But mostly it’s that the Pure-blooded idiots in our House want to _learn_ the Dark Arts, not defend against them.”

“Idiots is correct,” Nizar mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If any of them ask what I’m teaching you, send them to me. You’re not going to do their work for them. If they think Defence is so useless, they can learn the hard way that it is quite the opposite, or else their Head of House wouldn’t have been trying to get this job for the last ten years.”

“What is Professor Snape saying about you getting the post instead of him, sir?” Gupta asks.

Nizar holds up his hands, fingers curled, as he’s seen several years of students doing to quote another. “‘Better you than practically _anyone_ else,’” he says, and gets three wide smiles in response. “Go on, out. If you’ve another class, you don’t want to be late. Are you two satisfied that I’m not being a miserable bastard behind your backs?” Nizar asks after the others leave.

The Weasleys look at each other again. “Well,” Fred begins.

“It’s only one class. We’re reserving judgement, but a Slytherin is still an improvement over a toad,” George says.

“Umbridge was a Slytherin.” Nizar gives them a faint smile when the twins stare at him. “She’s always been that way. With no useful Head of House in place, her behavior was ignored. I really hate how many students of my brother’s House have gone out into the world and proved themselves to be truly horrid examples of humanity.”

“I really am appalled that I’m asking this, but are you all right?” George asks.

“No.” Nizar glances at the open door. “You should go. You’ll definitely be late for your next class at this rate.”

“Nah, we’re free for the rest of the day, Professor,” Fred says. “You didn’t have to tell us that.”

Nizar shrugs. “Lies are damaging. The truth is often much more useful, if not more fun.”

The twins exchange glances again. “You know, maybe it’s not a bad idea,” Fred says.

“Certainly couldn’t hurt.” George turns to Nizar. “Sir, we’re sort of magical entrepreneurs, but we’re getting into the sort of products where experimenting on ourselves is potentially hitting dangerous territory.”

Magical entrepreneurs. Nizar lifts an eyebrow. “Go on…”

“We know from our older brother Bill that Slytherins often like the idea of an exchange,” Fred says. “You’re a thousand years old, so say we handed you an idea or a formula, you’d be able to tell us if it would do something that would have us landed in Azkaban.”

George nods. “Which for obvious reasons, we’d prefer to avoid.”

“You’re both seventeen?” Nizar asks, and they nod. “All right. No promises, but I’ll think on it.”

At four-thirty, Minerva McGonagall knocks on the doorframe for his classroom. “Is that offer still open?”

“The door is open and the portraits are still there, so yes.” Nizar coughs to clear his throat when his voice turns to a rasp at the end of the sentence. “It looks like Godric and Helga are the only two still lingering, though.”

“That’s fine by me. Far less imposing than trying to deal with all four of them at once, I think,” Minerva replies, and makes her way to the wall. “Hello.”

“Hello, Head of my House!” Godric replies cheerfully, and Nizar leaves them to it. He is still trying to figure out how to retain a Metamorphmagus shift. If he can’t retain a change, he can’t bloody well teach it!

Minerva peers into his office about a half-hour afterwards. “Oh, this is lovely,” she says, glancing around at the shelves of books.

“Thank you.” Nizar closes the Metamorphmagus text and resists the urge to fling it at the wall. It isn’t the book’s fault that his memories are lacking. “Are you the only one?”

Minerva nods. “None of the others came to see this place. I think they found the idea intimidating.”

Nizar sighs. “Of course. Well, too bad; the portrait frames are going back in my quarters this evening. They’ll have to content themselves with attempting to track down the portraits when they’re wandering about in other frames.”

“You didn’t tell them it was a one-time offer,” Minerva says.

Nizar gives her an innocent look. “They didn’t ask.”

“Hmm.” Minerva gives him a look that is attempting to be disapproving without quite making it there. “Dinner is at six, Professor Slytherin.”

“Are you going to be so formal all the time?” Nizar asks. “It seems awkward.”

“One never knows if another will take offence at a lack of formal address,” Minerva replies primly.

“I’m not offended. My name is fine unless we’re needing to be impressive and terrifying in front of students,” Nizar says.

She smiles. “Then I am Minerva, Nizar. Unless we need to be impressive and terrifying, of course.”

“I definitely understand why Severus likes you.” Nizar stands up to put the book away. “See you at dinner, Minerva.”

Nizar waits until she’s gone, and the classroom door is shut, before he moves the portrait frames back into his quarters. “And what did a Gryffindor Head of House wish to speak with you about?” he asks Godric, who is the only one still lingering.

“She was intriguing,” Godric says, untying his hair from the strict tail he always kept when trying to be formal or intimidating, if not both. “She wished to know more of you than she did of me.”

“And what did you tell her?”

Godric waits until he finishes hanging Helga’s frame. “Minerva wanted to know more of your role in the castle during our time. I told her that you were the castle’s defender and Defence teacher. She asked what I meant by defender; I said it was your title.”

“Title.” Nizar frowns. “Protector.”

“Exactly.” Godric gives him a curious look. “Do you recall what that means?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Nizar pinches the bridge of his nose again, trying to decide if he has a headache, or if he’s just unused to talking through an entire day. “Is this something I should ask about, or just worry about it later?”

“Little of both, I suspect,” Godric says. “For now, merely think on this: if Hogwarts came under attack, we all fought, but who coordinated that defence?”

Nizar drops his hand. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I did.”

“Exactly. We’ll speak more later, Nizar,” Godric says, and vanishes.

“Why did all four of you spend a thousand years learning to be cryptic?” Nizar asks in irritation. “Honestly, a straight answer is not that difficult!”


	10. Grief and Patroni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please tell me it wasn’t quoting Alice in Wonderland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my anniversary and I can post two chapters today if I wanna.

By the time he gets down to dinner, Nizar has another problem. “You look dour, which is often what you’re accusing me of,” Severus says to him when he arrives. “And since you made a point of saying such to me: you’re late.”

Nizar waves a hand at him and then sits down. At his left, Minerva is telling Filius, Aurora, Poppy, and Dumbledore about the portraits, and her shock at how young Godric and Helga had been in 995. He ignores as much of that as he can, trying to concentrate on food while being pleased that the elves recognized his liking of tea so quickly. He isn’t sure what the food on his plate happens to be, but it isn’t poisonous, and it has a flavor other than bland.

“You’re awfully mute this evening.”

Nizar glares at Severus and replies in British Sign Language, taught by several of his Half-blood and Muggle-born students over the years. _I stopped talking and lost my voice. Fuck seven hours of lecture time._

Severus smirks at him and then shakes his head. “I thought as much.” He reaches into his robes and pulls out a corked flask. “This might help.”

Nizar slugs back the entire potion before he can register the flavor. Restoratives for the throat are either teeth-aching syrups or bitter horrors. “Dear gods, thank you,” he says once he can feel the rawness ease. “Now I can annoy people again.”

“Proper priorities, as ever,” Severus replies, amused.

“Priorities. Oh.” Nizar stands up and leaves the faculty table, heading straight for the cluster of Gryffindors that make up their Quidditch team. “I’m borrowing them,” Nizar tells the others, who look baffled by his sudden appearance.

Fred and George just seem amused as they’re hauled away from the table by their collars. “I guess we’re leaving now!” Fred chirps happily.

Nizar takes them to the Entrance Hall, out of sight from the diners in the Receiving—the Great Hall. He still isn’t used to that name change. “I thought of something.”

“Well, that didn’t take long,” George says. “What can we do for you, Professor Slytherin, sir?”

“Don’t overdo it, for starters,” Nizar replies. “I already know that you’re of age, but what classes are you taking this term?”

Fred gives him an odd look. “Light schedule, really, sir. Charms, Alchemy, Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, and Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“It’s just Defence,” Nizar says, and coughs again to finish clearing his throat as the potion finishes its work.

George shrugs. “Right. Well, those are the classes we thought would be the most useful for our little venture, Professor. Except for Defence—er, just Defence.”

“That, we’re taking because we’re old enough to stand against You-Know-Which-Twit,” Fred says. “Nice to have the tools to do that job properly, too.”

“All right. Normally, seventh-years are actively assisting in teaching the lower years as part of their apprenticeships, but everyone went stupid and no one does things intelligently anymore. Despite that stupidity, I need assistants. Are you still interested in that trade?” Nizar asks.

Fred’s eyebrows rise. “Well, yes, but why just us?”

“You’re the only two in that class who I can tell have the potential to do so,” Nizar explains. “You’ve never allowed a lack of teacher to stop you from learning, else you wouldn’t be experimenting with what I suspect are multiple types of magic for your mysterious venture. If you’ve come to a point where you think long years of experience are necessary, then I’m intrigued. The others might get better as the term progresses,” he adds, thinking on the day’s lecture. “But right now, it’s you and Miss Lovegood.”

“Lovely Loony Luna?” George looks surprised. “Really, Professor?”

“Miss Lovegood is utterly fearless in a way that very few ever are, especially as others are often filled with foolish bravado. She isn’t.” Nizar shakes his head. “If it weren’t for the age limit, she’d be assisting me. I have to find a boggart, because I truly believe _it_ would be terrified of _her_. I’ve always wanted to see what happens if you terrify a boggart.”

George looks at his brother. “Fred?”

“George.” Fred glances up at the ceiling before nodding. “Yeah, fair trade. We’re happy to be of service, Professor Lordship, sir!”

“ _Please_ do not overdo it.” Nizar rolls his eyes. “Bring me your schedule tomorrow morning before class begins so I know when I can borrow you without interrupting your studies. I’m otherwise available from four to six o’clock every evening. Go back to dinner.”

The twins salute, to his bemused irritation, and go back to the Hall. Nizar follows them, but walks past the tables to return to his seat.

“What in the world did you do?” Minerva asks, staring at the Gryffindor table. Fred and George are grinning so widely that everyone nearby has scooted away from them in response.

“Corralling potential mayhem,” Nizar replies. “That is a good thing, yes?”

“I suppose it depends upon _how_ ,” Poppy says in dismay.

Nizar smiles. “I’m making them be responsible.”

Even Severus stares at him for saying that. “How?” Aurora all but wails. “They’re impossible!”

“You don’t browbeat talent. You direct it so that it can manifest in the safest and most effective manner possible.” Nizar glances at the other teachers at the table and sees far too much disbelief. “Really? This is not a hard concept.”

“I’m rather fond of it, myself,” Dumbledore says, and that seems to be the end of it. Nizar mutters something impolite in Old English under his breath. So far, no one except Binns knows the language, but Binns also wants to argue with him about Alba and Moray, and how Nizar is _wrong about Scotland_. Unfortunately he can’t strangle a fucking ghost.

Severus comes to his quarters that night instead of Nizar going to his. Nizar didn’t realize at the time that he was setting a nightly habit, but he isn’t going to complain about it—especially when Severus brings him mead.

Nizar examines the bottle in his hands, smiling. “It’s been a long time since I mentioned anything about this.”

“I had time to walk to Hogsmeade before dinner, and I remembered your preferences. I do try not to overly imbibe on whiskey during the week,” Severus says. “Please note that I said ‘try,’ as I am well aware of the fact that I often fail.”

“Not without good reason,” Nizar murmurs. The mead tastes like sweetness and wildflowers, and is just as soothing to his throat as the earlier potion.

“And now you’ve turned dour again.” Severus sits down on the other end of the sofa. “Why?”

“I thought I was used to it. I thought I was used to everyone being long dead and gone,” Nizar says, using his fingernail to peel up the edge of the mead’s hand-printed label. “But ever since Hallowe’en, it’s…I’m _not_ used to it. I keep expecting family to walk in that door. Sometimes I get confused when I see all those bloody ridiculous uniforms the students are wearing. The Receiving Hall has a different name, and is a vast space compared to what it once was. There used to be a moat around this castle, you know? Spring-fed, some of the clearest water on this entire island. It’s completely gone, and I’ve no idea what happened to it.

“It’s mostly the people, though. I miss them. I thought I’d gotten past it. I watched them age and _die_. It was so fucking long ago, but it’s like I’m trying to cope with it all over again.”

Severus tries to start speaking several times before he succeeds. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he says in a quiet voice. “I don’t have any idea what it would be like to…to experience such loss. I’ve only ever cared for two people in my life. One of them is here; the other is not.”

Nizar glances over at him. “Only two, Severus?”

Severus scowls. “I admit, I would be upset if certain members of this faculty were to perish. And, I am…fond of most of my Slytherins, though some I’d happily throttle if given the opportunity. That still isn’t the same sort of loss, Nizar.”

“No, but one doesn’t invalidate the other.” Nizar smiles and holds up the bottle. “We used to make our own, twice a year. It was a challenge as to whose alcohol could make Godric fall asleep beneath a table the quickest. He built up quite a tolerance. Actually, everyone did. It was self-defence at that point.”

“I have been Head of your brother’s House for thirteen years, and I can all but sense the mischief that caused.”

“Well, the challenge did have to be upheld,” Nizar says. “Salazar and I took apples, honey, and blaeberries, distilling a liquor from them that looked like water, tasted like a sweet wine, and kicked like an ox. Once Godric was sober again, he begged all of us not to use him as a test subject for alcoholic potency any longer. Bloody spoilsport.”

 Severus laughs in near-silence. “I notice that you’ve not mentioned Helga or Rowena.”

“Salazar and I drank in Castile, Rowena was Bavarian, and Helga was a _Viking_. Godric’s problem in regards to distilled alcohol is that he was trying to keep up.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar would be less frustrated if every single class were not a repeat of the same thing. It isn’t the difficulty of the lesson, but the damned social interactions. Every year, every House. He’s taught some stubborn magical beings in his life, but most of these students have dug in their heels in blatant refusal to consider that their worldview might not be correct. Nizar knows next to nothing of the modern world beyond Hogwarts, and he’s still doing a better job of adjusting to new ideas.

“All right, you exceptionally stubborn words I cannot say because I’m your teacher,” Nizar says to everyone’s final class that week. At least they appreciate the humor. He will charm them with bricks if he has to; his goal is still the same. He wants them bloody well _listen_ to him! “You have homework this weekend.”

There is a muted chorus of groaning. “Stop whinging, or I’ll re-evaluate my stance on your essays.” Nizar smiles when there is immediate silence. “Better. I’m going to assign each of you a partner from a House that is _not_ your own. All of you can now cast some form of Patronus, even if it does not yet have a shape. You and your partner will agree on a time to send each other your Patronus. Your partner in mischief will write down when they saw it, identify the creature or what they heard it say, and then you’ll do the same in reverse. Bring it back for your first class of next week.

“For those who are immediately considering cheating based on grudges or perceived House animosity, don’t be stupid. I know what every student in every single year is capable of. If you lie, I _will_ know, and you will be the one to fail this lesson. Understood?”

Nizar waits until he has some grudging acknowledgement from the class. “Good,” he says, and hands out assignments according to who seems to hate each other the most. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t even consider doing so, as it’s not the safest idea for those involved. However, he has no idea which attitudes are based on personal interactions and which are built on House rivalries, and this is an excellent way to find out. The students who truly do loathe each other will try to fail each other, even with Nizar’s warning.

“ _They always think they’re so sneaky_ ,” Nizar murmurs in Parseltongue.

Kanza lifts her head out of his shirt collar as the final students file out. “ _You will teach them how to be sneaky in truth_.”

“ _If they ever pull their heads out of their backsides, yes_.”

Nizar fails no less than forty-eight students on Monday, including Draco and Ron Weasley, whose expressions fall from smug satisfaction to complete dismay when they discover that their clever schemes against each other are complete failures. Draco is angry; Weasley just seems baffled that they received equal punishments for the same stupid blunder.

“What if I were to tell my father of this?” Draco asks after class, scowling.

Nizar looks at him in disbelief. “Mister Malfoy, I would be far more concerned about your _mother_ discovering your attempt at cheating, your very poor attempt at currying favor with an instructor, and being caught at either.” Malfoy blanches, mutters a hasty apology, and all but flees the classroom.

By the end of the day, the only class _not_ to have anyone try something so utterly foolish and transparent is his seventh-years. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for not being appallingly stupid,” Nizar says to them, which garners confused looks until he mentions the number of cheating attempts.

“Oh, Merlin, seriously?” Shah huffs. “Please tell me my House was not that stupid.”

“Actually, it was an even split between all four Houses,” Nizar says, disappointing everyone in the room. “And I’ll keep failing every single last one of you ingrates until you all learn some manners. Now, did anyone manage a corporeal Patronus this weekend?”

“Johnson got a Hippocampus,” Fawcett says in disgust.

“And not you?”

“Well, I did get a Patronus from her,” Johnson answers, glancing at Fawcett. “It came to find me and everything. It’s just—she waited until I took out my contact lenses for the day. I couldn’t see if it was a corporeal shape or not, but I did write all of that down. Sorry.”

Fawcett looks surprised by the apology. “Oh. Uhm, thank you.”

“What is a contact lens?” Nizar asks, baffled. He is even more confused when Johnson reaches into her eye and removes something transparent that rests on her finger. When he approaches, it’s to see a very tiny lens resting on her fingertip. “Glasses worn directly over the eyes. That’s amazing. Non-magical invention?”

Johnson nods and puts the lens back over her eye, which is sort of alarming to witness. “It’s a lot easier than dealing with glasses on the Quidditch pitch. I always wanted Harry—” She breaks off, biting her lip, before continuing. “I told Harry he should get them, too, but he always said his aunt and uncle would never go for it.”

Nizar doesn’t comment directly on her mention of Potter, if only because it looks like Spinnet might break down sobbing if he did so. “Without trying to be rude: why did neither of you have your eyesight fixed?”

“Oculus Potion doesn’t work on us.” Johnson tries to smile. “We used to commiserate over both of us being the standard exception—that we were the two out of our particular batch of ten.”

“That really doesn’t sound right, but this is Defence, not Potions. Miss Fawcett, please try to cast your Patronus here, where we can all see it.”

Fawcett turns red for some reason and then casts the spell. She does get a corporeal Patronus, at least. “A dragonfly. Congratulations.”

“It’s so tiny,” Fawcett complains.

“A Patronus’s strength has absolutely nothing to do with its size. A Patronus is an aspect of our magic. The more confident the spell, the stronger the Patronus,” Nizar says.

“But yours is, uh, gigantic and there is absolutely no way for me to say anything about giant serpents without it becoming a terrible euphemism,” Jordan blurts out in a rush.

“I’ve heard those implications often, Mister Jordan.” Nizar shakes his head. “However, the only reason my Patronus is so _sizeable_ —” he waits, smiling, for ten teenagers to get over themselves, “—is merely due to the fact that an adult basilisk really is that large. That’s it. The only difference in strength between my basilisk and Miss Fawcett’s dragonfly is that I’ve far more experience casting it.”

“That really didn’t help with in avoiding the euphemisms. At all,” Jordan says.

Nizar shrugs. “Verbal defence is a part of your instruction, Mister Jordan, and that includes being able to concentrate beyond what is said, implied, or otherwise provided as a distraction. Does anyone else have a success?”

“George sent me a salamander,” Fleet says. “The regular, water-dwelling sort, but it was corporeal.”

George nods, proud. “Got a shark from Fleet. Very impressive, corporeal, and shark-like.”

“Why a _shark_?” Fleet asks in dismay.

“Your House Founder was a Viking. Why not a shark?” Nizar counters. “Next!”

“Fred sent me a flaming salamander,” Shah says testily. “If you hadn’t lectured otherwise, sir, I’d accuse both of them of pairing up on salamanders on purpose.”

“No, I’m fairly certain that’s just them.”

“Tamsin sent me a very nice stallion with spots,” Fred reports, smiling at her. “Lots of galloping from that one.”

Nizar nods at Fairbourne when she raises her hand. “Parangyo actually had a very nice boa constrictor, if a bit, er, stereotypical. Another Slytherin with a serpent, I mean,” Fairbourne says.

Nizar looks at Parangyo. “None of you should ever wrestle against Miss Parangyo. What did Miss Fairbourne send you?”

Parangyo smiles. “A parakeet.”

Fairbourne turns around in her seat. “What? I did not! A _parakeet_?”

“You probably shouldn’t cast aspersions if you’re not paying attention,” Parangyo says.

“Exactly so. Mister Jordan?”

“Gupta’s might finalize into a dog, but it wasn’t quite there yet,” Jordan reports.

“Jordan sent me a talking bloody Patronus!” Gupta yelps. “It broke my concentration!”

“I did tell you all how to send messages by Patronus,” Nizar says. “What did Mister Jordan send you?”

“A talking ruddy hedgehog!”

Spinnet grins. “Well, can you blame him? He’s been commentating Quidditch matches for over six years. Talking is a habit! Oh, and I got a talking butterfly from Shah, sir.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t quoting _Alice in Wonderland_.”

Shah grins wide. “Of course it was, sir!”

Nizar glances up at the ceiling. “At least it wasn’t the stupid sequel. Miss Shah?”

“Spinnet sent me a bat. Which…was also quoting _Alice in Wonderland_ , sir.”

Nizar pinches the bridge of his nose. “‘Twinkle, twinkle, little bat?’”

“That would be the one, sir,” Spinnet says helpfully.

“Stupid book,” Nizar mutters. “Bloody Ravenclaws.”

“Lewis Carroll was a Ravenclaw?” Shah considers it. “Okay, yes, that makes complete sense.”

Fawcett glares at her. “Dammit, Shah! Don’t sully an author of my House!”

“Mister Gupta, I want to see a corporeal Patronus from you tomorrow; you’re almost there. _Moving along_ ,” Nizar insists when Shah and Fawcett glare at each other a minute too long. “You lot are getting split into two teams, and you’re going to spend the rest of the class period plotting on how to distract each other tomorrow.”

“Distracting each other?” Applebee asks.

“You have to be able to cast this spell even if the world is literally ending around you. Since we’re not going to simulate the end of the world, I suggest you get creative. You can have one Weasley twin apiece.”

“Finally,” George says.

Fred smiles. “Someone who takes our talents seriously!”

Nizar rolls his eyes. “Just don’t kill anyone.”

His oldest students are the only bright spot for the second week in a row. He spends several evenings banging his head against the desk in his office. If he doesn’t break through their stubbornness, he’s going to hex the lot of them into paying more attention.

Nizar lifts his head as an idea occurs to him. Maybe he should, anyway.

Severus looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. “You want to do _what_?”

“You heard me.” Nizar smiles. “You don’t have to like them to want them to live. You could also, oh…think of it in terms of vengeance for the times your favorites haven’t paid attention in class, creating epic disasters.”

“All right. That is tempting,” Severus admits.

“And I know full well you’re available at five o’clock every evening. I can reschedule third- through seventh-year to fall in that time slot next week. They’ll all be thrilled and lulled into a false sense of joy, as their class time will be an hour shorter than normal.”

Severus puts down the bottle he’s just finished cleaning. “That just crossed the line from temptation into me looking forward to it being Monday evening.”

“Thought it might.” Nizar waits for him to finish pouring a blue-green potion into the bottle. “What is that one?” he asks, enjoying the scents of mint, warm fire, and lulling frankincense that fill the air.

“A safe variant of Amortentia.”

Nizar frowns. “There is no such thing as a ‘safe’ love potion.”

“At this point, it is no longer truly a love potion. It has the characteristic of Amortentia that allows one to be able to detect the odors associated with whom they love, but that is all it does. In fact, ingesting it would be unwise unless you needed a reason to be ill for six hours. It’s called Spiritum Veritatis.”

“Breath of Truth,” Nizar translates. “One of yours?”

Severus nods. “Too many Death Eaters asked me for Amortentia. I wasn’t about to give them any such thing, so I compromised and gave them regret in a bottle. It now sells well to those who only wish to be handed a significant clue as to where their affection lies—in short, it sells very well to fools.”

“Some people are simply not that self-aware, Severus. Oh!” Nizar snaps his fingers. “I’ve been forgetting to ask all week. Do you have a copy of the Oculus Potion lying about? Someone mentioned it not working on two out of every ten individuals, and I wanted to see it.”

“A moment.” Severus goes to his desk and returns with a copy of the N.E.W.T.-level Potions text. “Page one fifty-six.”

“Oh, annotated. Lovely,” Nizar says, trying to read the original formula through Severus’s handwriting. “You know it’s wrong, too.”

“I just couldn’t fix it. Can you?”

Nizar stares at the page. “I know this. I just can’t remember it.”

“You may borrow it, if you like,” Severus offers. “Until you recall what it is that you’re searching for.”

Nizar glances at him. “I’m sure there are other copies aside from what I know is your own.”

“Yes, and they’re _wrong_!” Severus immediately retorts, which makes Nizar laugh.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus waits until Nizar departs by Apparition before he lets out the breath it feels like he’s been holding since Nizar asked about Spiritum Veritatis. He didn’t lie about its properties, but he didn’t tell Nizar that he’d just finished brewing it. The potion is still affecting the immediate environment. Nizar mentioned nothing about unusual scents, which is…telling. Severus hadn’t meant the potion’s brewing to be any sort of test; he didn’t plan to have a visitor in his office that evening at all.

He wasn’t planning on testing _himself_ , either. He’d simply prepared a cauldron’s worth to give to the shops in Hogsmeade, as he usually did in November so it would age in time for the rush of idiots only motivated by the fourteenth of February. He hadn’t expected to be struck quite so forcefully with smells he’s come to associate with Nizar: the faint scent of warm lavender that lingers on his clothing, or the hints of sandalwood and sunlight Severus experienced the night Nizar fell asleep on his sofa.

 _And what are you going to do with that information_? Severus asks himself caustically. He has no idea how to court someone who is literally almost a thousand years older than he is. He still isn’t quite sure if Nizar would even welcome such a thing; for all Severus knows, the man is an incorrigible flirt who is desperately out of practice.

Severus awakens early on Sunday morning, walks out of his bedroom, and stops short when he notices the basilisk Patronus curled up on his sitting room floor. “It is too early for this.”

That must be the signal the Patronus is waiting for. It rears up and regards him with unblinking eyes before speaking in Nizar’s voice. “Can I borrow your classroom? I’d kill whoever stole my cauldron, but they’re dead already.”

He sighs and gets out his wand. “Tell Nizar he has my permission, please,” he says after casting the spell, and the doe leaps through the wall to deliver the message.

It’s answered less than a minute later by a return of the basilisk. “She’s absolutely gorgeous, Severus! Thank you.”

Severus calls for a house-elf and requests the strongest tea it’s possible to brew without killing anyone. He isn’t leaving his quarters without true fortification.

An hour later, he thinks he’s ready to dare his classroom to find out what a one-thousand-year-old Slytherin has wrought. He sees to several students on his way out of the dungeon, and promptly gives detention to a Gryffindor for swearing in the hallway. Karume looks to be on the verge of mutiny before Black, Ginevra, and Colin Creevy drag him away. At least three of the four are intelligent, especially as Ginevra slapped her hand over Karume’s mouth to keep him from voicing any further blunders.

Severus enters his classroom to the scent of stewing mandrake, which always leaves a pungent green bitterness in the air. “Please tell me that Kanza did _not_ Petrify a student.”

“I notice you’re more concerned with the students than the teachers.” Nizar is sitting cross-legged on top of a workbench, his chin resting on his hands as he stares at two cauldrons that are set up on the bench next to him—one brass and one cast-iron, both of them holding glass stirring rods.

“They can bloody well take care of themselves.” A Mandrake Restorative requires only one cauldron, not two. “What are you doing?”

“I realized something obvious last night regarding the Oculus Potion. We didn’t have turmeric. Well, we had it later, once we began taking the Old Road on a regular basis, but not at first. I don’t think turmeric is a failing, but it _is_ a shortcut.”

“And by resorting to a shortcut, it reduced the effectiveness of the original potion.” Severus can see that occurring and becoming accepted as common while brewers ignored the loss of potency. “What was the original?”

“Rosemary, eyebright, and dried blaeberries. The berries are useful for more than alcohol, though they only have a magical use when combined with unicorn horn. Odd damned plant.”

“They’re called bilberries in England,” Severus says, unused to hearing blaeberries from anyone except Minerva and their local-born students.

“Good for you lot from the south. They were blaeberries _first_ , after the Gaels adopted the Norse term.” Nizar hops down from the table, conjures a handful of ice without using his wand, and drops it in the brass cauldron. He gestures for the potion to stir itself before glancing at Severus. “Sometimes all it takes is one simple realization, and the pieces fall into place.”

“So I see.” Severus tilts his head at Nizar’s clothes, which he was wearing the previous evening. “I have non-addictive sleeping draughts.”

Nizar smiles. “I’m a chronic insomniac, Severus, but I appreciate the offer.” He tilts his head as he regards the brass cauldron before he starts ladling in stewed mandrake, which is surprisingly green.

“You do not brew by color?” When Severus brews, color is only a part of knowing when a potion is correct. He’s just not used to seeing others employ the same method.

“Color instructions in a potion are largely useless to me. Orange and yellow are rather obvious, but blue-green? Pink? White? Clear?” Nizar shakes his head. “I don’t see those colors the same way other people do. I brew by listening.” When the ladle scrapes the bottom of the cast iron cauldron, Nizar extinguishes the heat for both of them. “There. That would be the Oculus Potion that works for everyone, though we called it Sana Visio.”

“Healthy vision.” Severus peers into the cauldron, which reveals a potion that is a golden orange hue with a hint of violet at the edges. “Different. You used the mandrake leaves, too.”

“They’re just as useful as the root,” Nizar says. “Why not?”

“Indeed.” Severus steps back and tries not to glare at the cauldron. “Not once did I consider replacing the turmeric, and I should have. The potion is old, and that is an Indian root.”

“To be fair, we did have it after the year…” Nizar trails off. “Never mind. I can’t remember. We had it at some damned point, anyway.”

Severus looks at Nizar. “And this is correct. It’s safe to use?”

“You know the answer to that,” Nizar says, walking to the clean flasks and bottles lining the shelf. “I wonder if Miss Johnson is awake. I need a willing test subject.”

Severus is surprised by that. “Miss Johnson of Gryffindor has eye trouble?”

Nizar nods. “She wears non-magical lenses—contact lenses, she called them. The standard Oculus Potion didn’t work on her. This one will.”

“If she isn’t immediately available, ask Minerva,” Severus suggests. “She is not fond of her deteriorating vision. One cannot wear glasses as a cat.”

Nizar bottles a single flask of the potion and looks at it through the glass. “To me, this looks like a sunset would to you. Beautiful.”

“What does an actual sunset look like, then?” Severus asks.

Nizar lowers the flask. “Amazing,” he whispers. “Just…there are no names for what I can see.”

“Would a Pensieve translate it?”

“I don’t need a Pensieve,” Nizar says after a moment. “You’re a mind magic practitioner, Severus. I can show you.”

“Ah.” Severus tries to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that statement brings. “That is…”

Nizar smiles. “I trust you not to pry beyond that, Severus.” His smile fades. “You just cannot ever try to gain access to my mind unless I’ve given you permission.”

“I assume you have a formidable defence.”

“My first layer of defence is difficult for someone to get through, but not impossible. My second layer of defence is literally lethal,” Nizar says. “That is why I warn people like Dumbledore not to pry when they make the attempt.”

“Literally lethal,” Severus repeats, intrigued. “What is it?”

“A basilisk’s unlidded gaze.”

Severus stares at him. “And how in God’s name did you recreate that?”

“Mandrake Restorative and a patient basilisk who was willing to allow me to experiment looking into her eyes while I used a mirror. Salazar assisted, told me I was insane, and then did the same thing,” Nizar explains. “It was an interesting week.”

“Your brother was correct,” Severus says. “Curiosity drives me to ask what it is like to be Petrified.”

Nizar purses his lips in thought before answering. “Unexpected conscious napping. You’re not truly awake, but you’re aware of what’s going on around you. It isn’t entirely unpleasant, but I wouldn’t want to be trapped that way.”

Severus thinks of how long the first Petrified student lingered in the infirmary after Slytherin’s maddened basilisk was released. “No, that sounds nightmarish.”

Nizar starts laughing. “You want to try it, don’t you?”

“I am _not_ fond of the idea of being Petrified. I am, however, very fond of my privacy, and that is an effective way of maintaining it,” Severus replies.

“If Voldemort ever slipped through your first layer of Defence, he would definitely be suspicious as to how you managed to create that second layer,” Nizar says.

Severus smiles. “He would be a bit busy dealing with death, I think.”

Nizar shakes his head. “Severus, if the Killing Curse doesn’t work on him, a basilisk’s unlidded stare would probably be nothing more than a temporary inconvenience—Kanza, stop volunteering to help! I do not actually want him to do this!”

Severus watches as the infant basilisk glides out to rest on Nizar’s shoulder. “She is opinionated, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Nizar sighs. “Fine. If this is something you decide you truly want, we’ll help you, but it will have to wait. There aren’t any mature mandrakes in the greenhouses.”

Minerva is already awake for the day, which is one difficulty dealt with. The other difficulty lies in convincing her to try the potion in the first place.

“I’m really not sure. Oculus Potion has never worked on me before,” Minerva says, “though I admit, it _is_ pretty.”

“This isn’t Oculus Potion. This is Sana Visio.” Nizar holds up the flask and then scowls when Minerva hesitates. “Fine.” He uncorks it and drinks half of the flask’s contents before sealing the bottle again. Then he blinks a few times in surprise. “Oh, my vision had deteriorated a bit. That’s much better.”

“All right. I’m convinced.” Minerva held out her hand. “I don’t expect it to work, though.”

Less than two minutes later, Minerva is taking off her glasses in shock. “I’m eating those words, and I don’t care. Nizar, I apologize for doubting you. I haven’t been able to see this well since I worked for the Ministry!”

“You’re welcome.” Nizar finishes bottling the rest of the potion before he cleans up both workbenches and cauldrons. “I’m glad it worked.”

Severus glances at Minerva, who is already looking at him. “You should publish it,” he suggests.

“That would be a very short book.” Nizar picks up a bottle full of preserved caterpillars. “Where are these from?”

“Australia,” Severus answers. “And: lemon balm, you idiot.”

Nizar puts the bottle back. “That is still a very short book.”

“But I do seem to recall Albus saying something about your need to establish yourself beyond the borders of the school,” Minerva says.

“That man speaks too much of all the wrong things,” Nizar mutters.

“What about the book you gave me?” Severus asks. “Did you ever discern who wrote it?”

Nizar glances at him. “Yes, but I had to look at the original copy first. That’s Salazar’s work.”

Severus feels his eye twitch. “ _What_?”

“Oh, that’s delightful!” Minerva smiles at Nizar while Severus glares at her. “What’s in it?”

“Healing potions, poisons, two different de-lousing formulas because anyone of Nordic descent is allergic to the first, and many other miscellaneous ideas crafted because someone would tell Salazar it couldn’t be done. He’d tell them off, do it anyway, and then tell them off again.” Nizar gives Severus an curious look when Severus shifts his glare to him. “What?”

“When did you remember who wrote that book?” Severus asks, giving Minerva another suspicious glance.

“Oh. The day after I gave it to you,” Nizar says.

Severus resists the urge to grind his teeth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Nizar smiles. “Because you didn’t ask.”

“And you didn’t think it important?”

“Yes, but I was waiting for you to ask so I would get to see the face you made in response,” Nizar replies, which is when Minerva loses control and starts laughing.

Severus narrows his eyes. “I truly hate both of you right now.”

“Oh, so you don’t want to keep the book?” Nizar asks. The innocent expression on his face would be more effective if his eyes didn’t give it away.

“I didn’t say that.” Severus scowls at Minerva. “Get out of my office!”

Minerva gasps for breath, nods, and leaves while still chortling at him. God damn it.

“I told you that you were friends,” Nizar says.

“If you don’t at least write down the original formula, I will beat you to death with a cauldron.”

Nizar lifts the second bottle of Sana Visio. “I’ll consider it. Maybe,” he adds, but Disapparates before Severus can consider making good on his threat.


	11. Dueling in Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “OH, MERLIN, WE’RE STUPID! WE DIDN’T TAKE HIS WAND!”

Third- through seventh-year students received deliveries of their temporarily rescheduled practical time-slots over the weekend. Nizar holds his lecture classes on Monday as if everything is normal, ignoring their prying questions. Only his first- and second-years are oblivious, but they’re not ready for the practical demonstration the others are going to receive. With the first-years, it’s striking the delicate balance of not panicking parents while still making sure they receive some sort of education. With the second-years, it’s about taking an admittedly solid education received under the infamous Death Eater instructor and pushing them further still. With everyone else, it’s teeth-grinding frustration…but not for much longer.

Nizar watches his entire batch of third-years file back into the classroom at five o’clock, radiating curiosity. Half of the torches in the room are out, which creates dark shadows, useful for hiding.

“Good evening. I’d like you all to know that I’m at the end of my patience with your ridiculous hang-ups about regarding each other as the enemy. Gryffindors, you want to think of Slytherin as the enemy so badly?” Nizar waits for Severus to emerge from the shadows in the back of the room, and hides a smirk at the number of unhappy and fearful gasps he hears. “Today, you’re going to get your wish—and yes, this exercise does include you as well, baby Slytherins.” He stares at the nine Slytherins in the room. “Some of you think you’re prepared for life as a Death Eater, or life fighting against your enemies? Today, you’re going to meet the reality of that foolishness. _Hogewáþ_ , _dame el hermoso entorno al aire libre con grandes rocas, niebla, un pantano, y algunas sombras_.”

The environment shifts from wood and stone classroom to a foggy field at dusk, full of shadows and large patches of thick fog. He loves that Hogwarts will still provide exactly what he asks for.

“What are we going to do?” Miss Sibazaki asks in a quaking voice.

“This is now a dueling chamber,” Nizar tells them, smiling. “We’ll be keeping your skill level in mind, but you should be very concerned about the fact that your Head of House has already disappeared. We’re your enemies today, by the way,” he adds, and steps backwards into the mist.

Nizar doesn’t see Severus while the class is in session, but he does hear the results of the man’s spells. He is casting at third-year level, yes, but by Nizar’s standards for third-year magic, not that stupid damned textbook approved by the governing board.

When he requests that the room return to normal, he has huddles of students clustered in groups, and none of them are giving a damn about House affiliation. “Better,” Nizar says, returning his wand to his sleeve.

“Uh, but—most of us _hid_ ,” Miss Suri says, standing up with Sibazaki, Black, Jones, and Warren.

“Hiding from a superior opponent is a valid form of defence. It means you’re still alive. That’s sensible,” Nizar tells them. “Now, what did you learn from this exercise?”

“That you’re both terrifying,” Miss Vane squeaks.

Nizar rolls his eyes. “Aside from that.”

“If we’re attacked, we need each other. We’re completely pants at this!” Black announces in dismay.

“That’s also a good realization to have. You should have been capable of being a bit more proactive in your defence at this stage in your education.” Nizar leans against his desk, aware that Severus is hiding in the back of the room again. “That will do for now. Go on to dinner, or for a quick visit to Madam Pomfrey if you’re feeling any lingering discomfort. Oh, Hestia and Flora Carrow? You both have detention with me on Saturday morning.”

The Carrow twins develop identical scowls. “What? Why?” Flora asks.

Nizar frowns at her. “Because you spent the entire exercise hexing your fellow students instead of defending them or yourselves from _us_. You have detention for your complete failure to follow given instructions.”

“We should have our detentions with our Head of House!” Hestia declares.

“Professor Snape was assisting me today, but this is my class. Nine o’clock Saturday. Don’t be late, or you will not like the consequences.”

Nizar waits until they’re all gone and shuts the door behind the last student. “I am so fucking disappointed with the bloody Carrow twins!” he growls.

“They are rather vicious,” Severus says, joining him at his desk. “But to my displeasure, they’re taking more and more after their aunt and uncle with every day that passes.”

“We have enough vicious idiots in the world.” Nizar sighs. Like their aunt and uncle, the Carrow twins came into the Common Room intent upon being vile, and they’re polishing up that character flaw nicely. “Any other observations?”

“Edward Black is terrified of harming another, to his utter detriment,” Severus says, lip curling in annoyance. “He does himself no favors at all.”

“No,” Nizar agrees. “I’ll have to think of something to help him get over that fear.”

“Place him in a scenario where he believes Miss Weasley to be in danger,” Severus suggests.

Nizar shakes his head. “It wouldn’t work. He won’t believe it.”

Severus gives him an odd look. “Why?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow.”

After the students leave following Tuesday evening’s session, Severus glares at him. “A little fucking _warning_ would have been nice!”

Nizar grins. “You’re just angry that Miss Weasley managed to hex you.”

“Less the success and more the manner of the hex!” Severus rubs at his nose. “That was the most uncomfortable feeling on the entire planet!”

“She calls it a Bat Bogey Hex. What should be truly unnerving is that it was _not_ Fred and George’s invention,” Nizar says. “Gods, those poor damned bats.”

“My sinuses loathe you right now, Nizar.”

“At least you’re angry with me and not her.” Nizar ducks his head when Severus takes a swing at him. “You’ll have to be faster than that.”

Severus glares at him before deciding to move on. “To my surprise, Colin Creevy seems to have talent for something other than gluing his face to a camera.”

“As does Maxine Smith of Ravenclaw,” Nizar says, and Severus nods. “What did you think of Miss Lovegood?”

Severus frowns. “Why?”

“Because Miss Lovegood convinced the fog to toss me across the entire fucking field.”

“The fog,” Severus repeats. “Elemental magician?”

“I’m starting to suspect so, and they’re damned rare,” Nizar says.

“That would explain quite a number of Miss Lovegood’s interesting quirks.”

The fifth-year lesson on Wednesday is the one Nizar is concerned about. It isn’t just the fact that Neville Longbottom, infamous melter of cauldrons, will be present. This is the last year Defence is mandatory. For many of these students, this is Nizar’s only chance to break through stubborn, foolish ideology—not to mention teach them to defend themselves with any true skill.

As expected, Longbottom turns the color of stale cheese when Severus appears from the dark shadows behind Nizar’s desk. “I’ve explained what’s about to happen. The moment the room changes, you _will_ be expected to defend yourselves,” Nizar says, and then requests the dueling environment he and Severus have been using all week. It’s now familiar territory for them both, if utterly foreign to the students, but they have to be able to fight in strange places.

Nizar immediately points his wand at the closest Slytherin. Miss Bulstrode is sensible enough to duck and run for cover; Nott isn’t as fortunate. He takes a jinx to the face and goes down screeching.

“You’re still a lunatic,” Severus informs him, and then disappears into the fog to create chaos. Nizar takes it as a compliment.

By the end of this class period, Nizar has what he’s been wanting since their first day—students from all Houses, in pairs or in clusters, working together to defend themselves against two brutal and crafty instructors. Nizar has literally dismantled a human being with his wand without using the Killing Curse; Severus was once an actual Death Eater. It’s about time these young idiots got a real education.

When the room returns to normal, all the desks are exactly as they were placed before, though no one is sitting in them. Instead, Nizar has students standing around in groups, or in some cases, lying on the floor and gurgling in misery.

“All right, so—except for the potential part about dying in real life? That was fun,” Zabini says. “I can’t actually tell who was casting what at us. They were using that fog really well.”

Finnigan glances over at him. “Yeah, it really was fun,” he admits. “Never had a lesson quite like that.”

“That wasn’t fun, that was bloody terrifying!” Weasley squeaks. Granger rolls her eyes while helping Longbottom to his feet. The young man is covered in muck, but strangely enough, he doesn’t seem to be terrified out of his wits any longer. Interesting. Draco is now the one as pale as milk; Nizar wonders what Severus hit him with. He hopes it leaves a lasting impression.

Nizar waits until Severus steps back. It’s telegraphed body language, an implication that Severus might not agree with what Nizar has to say—all still a necessary deception.

“None of you in this room are enemies. You are students of Hogwarts, and there is a threat looming that will affect all of you, regardless of your supposed blood purity, your House, your parentage, or your age,” Nizar says softly. “Learn to work together. Learn all the aspects of how a magician truly defends themselves. I’m here to make sure it happens. It won’t always be pleasant, but that is why pain potions and healing spells exist.”

Nizar shuts the door behind the last student. “Well?”

“Longbottom has finally managed to surprise me,” Severus says at once. “I’m now more inclined to discern his cauldron-melting method.”

“Does Weasley always squeak like that?” Nizar asks, curious.

Severus lets out an amused snort. “Usually. He did keep up an effective defence, if not a very imaginative one. I’d blame Granger for his minor success, but she was with Greengrass, Boot, Longbottom, and Bones for the majority of the time.”

“Thomas and Finnigan worked well with Zabini, Bulstrode, and MacDougal.”

“Finnigan is far too fond of explosions,” Severus says. “But they’re effective.”

Nizar nods. “Crabbe and Goyle were eaten by a bog about ten minutes in. I worry about their survival.”

“I worry about their ability to tie their shoes in the morning,” Severus counters, scowling. “Draco relied on them exclusively and immediately lost his human shields.”

“Terrified the life out of him, did you?” Nizar asks.

“He’ll probably bleat to Lucius about being confronted with a real Death Eater, which would be a terrible error to make,” Severus replies. “I’ve warned him that he’s foolishly overconfident, and today he learned that truth the hard way.”

“He wants Lucius’s approval, and he’s never going to get it.” Nizar sighs. “I’ve been redirecting him towards Narcissa. At least she had an ounce of sense.”

“She does, yes.” Severus wipes ineffectually at his sleeve before he uses his wand to clean off dirt and bits of plant matter. “What can we expect from your N.E.W.T. students?”

“The sixth-years are woefully underprepared, and they’re not yet working together. It’s going to be a slaughter, but they desperately need the wake-up call.”

“I won’t go easy on them, then. Seventh-years?”

Nizar glances up at him and smiles. “They’re working together, and they like each other. They’re going to be fun, Severus.”

As expected, the sixth-year group is a complete slaughter. In real life, they’d all be dead, but Nizar takes no pleasure in telling them so. They should be better, and he’s going to make certain that they learn. It’s the only reassurance he can give ten disheartened students—they _will_ get better.

Miss Chang seems particularly upset, but Nizar isn’t sure why until she hangs back after the others leave. “Professor Slytherin, sir…” She swallows. “I wish you’d been here last year. For Cedric.”

“Mister Diggory.” Nizar inclines his head at her. “I’m sorry I was not there for him, too.”

“That was not your fault,” Severus says after she leaves.

“I know.” Nizar crosses his arms. “But someone pointed a wand at that young man, Severus. He didn’t know what to do, and it cost him his life. If they die, I would prefer it be because they faced an enemy they knew how to fight and failed, not because they were helpless from the start.”

Severus is quiet for a moment. “That is more realistic than expecting no deaths at all.”

“My son was exceptionally well-trained for facing and fighting the enemies of our time, and he still died,” Nizar says. “Sometimes there is nothing else you can do.”

Severus doesn’t offer further condolences, sensing that it isn’t needed. Instead, he motions towards the door. “Dinner. We can listen to them all whinge in commiseration.”

Nizar smiles. “That sounds like fun.”

Dinner is watching his third-, fourth-, and fifth-year students realize that they got off easy. Nizar’s ten sixth-years are slumped over their tables, groaning and acting as if they survived the end of the world. Either out of spite or genuine insanity, the sight of their suffering causes Nizar’s seventh-years to light up in expectation of tomorrow evening.

On Friday afternoon, his seventh-years do not disappoint him. Somewhere off in the fog, Nizar hears Severus make a startled noise and then fill the air with enraged swearing. Judging by the laughter, one of the Weasley twins got him. Johnson and Spinnet snuck shrunken broomsticks into the classroom and spend the entire time in the air, casting hexes and jinxes, along with several attempts at Tempero, what everyone is now calling the Imperius Curse. Nizar shakes it off and considers setting their brooms on fire in retaliation. No—they don’t know how to make their own to replace what might be lost. Unfortunate. Instead, Nizar creates a gale to keep their flying erratic.

He is beyond proud when Parangyo, Fawcett, Fairbourne, and Applebee team up. They pop out of hiding behind a cluster of boulders and nail him in the chest with a hex that lands Nizar on the ground, feeling like he’s just had his lungs ripped out. It takes him an infuriatingly long time to be able to draw breath, and even then all he can manage to do is lie there.

Parangyo appears over him, peering down at Nizar in concern. “Are you okay, Professor?”

Nizar takes another wheezing breath. “I’ll live. Good job. Go kill someone else.”

She beams at him and takes off, yelling for the other young women to follow. Nizar reaches into his robe, drawing out a corked tube. He removes the cork and swallows the painkilling potion, ignoring the bitterness. Gods, what happened to pain potions over the centuries? He knows they can be made without tasting like dirt, bitter chalk, or soured vinegar.

“FRED WEASLEY, I’M GOING TO FLAY THE SKIN FROM YOUR BONES!” Severus roars, followed by a thump and an undignified squawk that is decidedly not from a Weasley twin.

At least when Nizar laughs, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it would have a moment ago. Without getting up, he grasps his wand and whispers, “ _Invocar muchas serpientes_.” Four different subspecies of cobra emerge from his wand and rear up, peering around with interest at their new surroundings. “ _Go get them,_ ” Nizar hisses. “ _Everyone but the tall man in black_.”

“ _Biting_!” an Egyptian cobra says joyfully. “ _Finally_!”

“ _I will bite those who felled you_ ,” the cobra from the East promises. A cobra with Persian coloration says nothing, but simply crawls away at high speed.

It’s the Iberian cobra that lingers. “ _Should I bite you while you lie on the ground_?” it asks curiously. “ _As long as I am biting things…_ ”

“ _Don’t be so lazy_ ,” Nizar scolds it. The cobra sighs and glides away.

A few minutes later, he hears Jordan yelp. “Shit! Who brought in the snakes?”

“I don’t—OW! Goddammit!” Shah yells.

“OH, MERLIN, WE’RE STUPID!” Applebee shouts in dismay. She sounds like she’s running. “WE DIDN’T TAKE HIS WAND!”

Nizar rolls over so that he drops off a small ledge and into a furrow in the earth. The fall makes his chest hurt again, despite the pain potion, but being hidden gives him time to repair the broken bones from that brilliant combined hex.

He gets up, finds Gupta alone, and subjects him to a Binding Hex with a jumping curse attached. Gupta looks flabbergasted as his bound legs insist on making off with him.

Unfortunately for Nizar’s desired revenge, the room’s timer counting down the class period resets the environment back to the classroom. Johnson and Spinnet suddenly find their flying space much reduced, and land in an unhappy jolt that sends a desk tumbling over onto its side. Three of the cobras have been Banished back to their homes; Nizar sends the silent Persian back home himself. Then he looks around to see what chaos has been wrought.

Lee, Shah, and Fred are all holding onto their shins, scowling. Fortunately, the room’s safeties mean they’ll be fine, but a viper’s bite still bloody hurts. Nizar finds Severus and immediately digs his palms into his eyeballs. “YOU GREAT GINGER BASTARDS!”

George starts laughing. “Thank you, Fearless Professor Leader!”

“I’m going to help him skin you alive!” Nizar leans over a student’s desk and wonders if he’s going to throw up, assisted by his brand-new migraine. The twins must have been paying attention to his reactions to Dumbledore’s clothing. Severus’s robes are a horrific, eye-blinding lime green with nauseating, brilliant yellow highlights.

“I’ve fixed my robes,” Severus announces, disgruntled. “I have no wish to be a walking eyesore. That is Professor Dumbledore’s job.”

Nizar straights up and looks at Severus. Then he nearly chokes on a startled laugh. “Uh, Professor Snape. Your hair.”

Severus pulls a lock of his hair forward and scowls. His black hair is now striped like a rainbow. He drops his hair and glares at the twins. “Fix it, or your parents will _never_ find your remains!”

Despite being covered in welts and multicolored burns, George is laughing too hard to be of any use. Fred’s hair is sparking like he’s been struck by lightning, but he reverses whatever interesting spell they used. “There you go, Professor! Good as new…but uh, don’t get your hair wet for the next four hours. It’ll revert, and then it takes days to get rid of it.”

“Did you use the opportunity provided by this class period to take revenge against Professor Snape for the last six-and-a-half terms of schooling?” Nizar asks them.

Fred and George glance at each other. “Well, yes,” George says, and muffles another laugh. “Concentrated on him and let the others deal with you.”

“And it got us snake-bit, you berk!”

Fred looks at Jordan and shrugs. “Worth it?”

“Taking advantage of an opportunity.” Severus gives the twins an impassive look. “Very Slytherin of you.”

The twins bow. “Thank you! We’re not sorry at all.”

“Neither am I. You’re not going to enjoy the next eight hours,” Severus tells them, smirking.

“What does _Miseriae visceribus_ mean, anyway?” Fred asks.

Nizar starts laughing, coughs, and presses his hand to his chest. “You’re going to find out. Delayed revenge. They should truly be teaching you lot proper Latin.”

“Do we need anti-venin or something, sir?” Shah asks.

Nizar shakes his head. “Not in this room. Dry bites. Disinfect it and you’ll be fine.”

“Right. Uhm…how did we do, Professor?” Johnson asks, helping Gupta to sit up. His feet are still twitching from the curse.

“Well, Applebee, Fawcett, Parangyo, and Fairbourne demonstrated true teamwork, and would have killed me thanks to that combined blasting hex, so they win,” Nizar says. Dammit, he’s still trying to blink spots out of his eyes from those robes.

“Wait—actually killed?” Fairbourne looks alarmed. “What?”

“You broke my sternum and three damned ribs, Miss Fairbourne,” Nizar replies. “Without the safeties in this room, you four would have shoved splinters of broken bone into my heart. It’s an effective means of dispatching someone who’s trying to kill you.”

“But we didn’t want you dead!” Applebee protests.

“Then next time, don’t strike your target in the chest with four blasting hexes at the same time.” Nizar finally makes his way to his desk and sits down in his chair. “Two will do the job nicely, but three or more are lethal. Johnson and Spinnet—excellent use of your belongings, flight skills, and shrinking spells to smuggle in useful objects.”

“You’re not going to tell us we cheated?” Johnson asks.

Severus rolls his eyes. “Miss Johnson, there is no such thing as _cheating_ when it comes to defending yourself. If you’re still alive at the end of the day, you succeeded, no matter the means.”

“Guess you’d know, what with being an ex-Death Eater and all, sir,” Fleet says in a tone that is too neutral to be natural. Nizar was aware that it was a quiet, dangerous rustle of knowledge in the school that Severus’s past affiliation had been revealed last term, but this is the first time he’s heard a student say it aloud, much less say it to Severus himself.

Severus glances at Fleet in disdain. “I am still alive, while countless others are deceased. Yes, I _do_ know.”

Fleet winces at the scathing retort. “Uh—yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Shah and Jordan, Fred and George, you all did well by partnering up, _but_ : Fred, George, you need to get used to working with others. If you’re separated in a fight and need to rely on different allies, you have to know how to do it effectively.” Nizar gestures at the classroom door, which opens on silent hinges. “Go on to the infirmary to get those bites looked at, then go to dinner.”

“We’re on it, Professors. This was fun!” Shah declares, leading the group as they leave the room.

Severus turns to Nizar after he shuts the door again. “Are you all right? You look like hell.”

Nizar points at Severus. “There is a line of bruises appearing on the side of your face. Fatal in real life?”

Severus shakes his head. “Inconvenient and annoying, possibly a concussion, but not fatal. Answer my question.”

“I took a pain potion, tasted no blood, and I’ve already mended what was broken.” Nizar rubs his breastbone again. “I still feel like I was hit by one of those automobiles, though. Damn, but I’m proud of them.”

“So am I,” Severus murmurs. “We should go downstairs. I refuse to give the blighters the satisfaction of not showing up for dinner.”

He shows Nizar another hidden back passage on the first floor, which leads to the door behind the staff table. Minerva gives Nizar a stern look as they take their seats. “What did you do?” she asks at once. “We have ten bruised students, four of them limping, three of them talking of biting cobras, while the others discuss fire and death!”

“It was a very constructive class session,” Nizar says, reaching for tea and bread. The migraine is starting to overpower the pain potion. Thank the gods and stars that Dumbledore’s wardrobe is showing remarkable restraint this evening by being a blend of gentle violets.

Minerva glances back out at the tables. “Well…I admit, they do seem pleased about it.”

Nizar follows her gaze and sees Fred and George, both of them gesturing and grinning. If they’re not discussing what they did to Severus’s hair, he’ll eat his tableware. The enthusiasm of the seventh-years is bringing the sixth-years out of their despairing slump, a reminder of Nizar’s promise that they’ll get better. The younger students are alternating between horror and amazement, possibly because Severus did not actually murder Fred and George.

“Do you have any idea how tempted I am to upend a goblet of water over your head, just to see what happens?”

Severus turns his head and pins Nizar with a look of flat displeasure. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Nizar smiles. “You do realize that just makes it more of a challenge.”

Severus’s lip twitches. “I’m aware. Please restrain yourself.”

“All right. Since you asked nicely,” Nizar says, and tries not to break down laughing when Fred Weasley suddenly jumps up and runs from the Great Hall. He’s followed moments later by George. Severus looks down at his plate, a satisfied smile on his face.


	12. Underwater Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn’t just grief that followed Nizar out of a picture frame, but nearly ten centuries spent in a frozen moment of time while staring out at constantly changing events.

Nizar falls asleep late on Friday and wakes up on Saturday morning before dawn lights the horizon. He glares at the dark window, attempts to go back to sleep, and utterly fails at it.

He needs a cauldron to brew his own restoratives. He isn’t used to this sort of schedule anymore, not after the damned portrait, and it’s wearing him down.

At least his head and chest have stopped hurting.

He has breakfast first, served by Dobby. Nizar asks the elf if he ever sleeps; the elf draws himself up and asks the same of him. “You win,” Nizar says, and Dobby beams before Disapparating. “Cheeky bugger. I like you.”

Nizar spends the first part of his morning reading, but he has the door propped open fifteen minutes before nine o’clock. The Carrow twins are five minutes late, and he knows at once that it was a deliberate decision on their part. “Don’t bother,” he says, when the girls start to put their things on desks in the rear of the room. He picks up his books and stands. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Hestia asks in a disdainful tone after he shuts the classroom door. Nizar is pleased to note that they’re both discomfited by disappearing doors.

“You’ll find out.”

Nizar leads them down the stairs until they’re on the first floor and then pushes open the door to the classroom he was told about last night. Inside are eighteen students sitting together in pairs. “Good morning, Professor McGonagall.”

Minerva gives Nizar a thin smile meant more for the Carrows than for him. “Good morning, Professor Slytherin.”

Flora scowls. “What are we doing here?”

Nizar turns around and stares down at them. “This is a study group for first- and second-years who are struggling in your seven primary subjects. The two of you think yourselves intelligent, so you will be assisting them with any problem they might have. You will be polite, and you will ignore no one. Disobey these rules, and you’ll be doing it again next Saturday. Understood?”

The twins glance at each other, eyes narrowed. “And how long are we to do this?” Hestia asks.

Nizar smiles. “Until I say to stop,” he answers. “Do keep in mind that I am not deaf.” Then he joins Minerva at the front of the room.

“If those children could set you on fire with their eyes, I do believe you would be burnt to ash at the moment,” Minerva tells him in a low voice.

Nizar sits down and props his feet up on an abandoned chair. “I’ve been glared at by far worse than a pair of hormonal thirteen-year-old girls.”

To their credit, the Carrow twins follow his instructions. It is, however, the most grudging and tight-lipped assistance Nizar has ever seen. Not even their fellow Slytherins escape the Carrow twins’ detention-wrought, politely grating wrath.

At noon, Nizar closes his book and glances at Minerva. “At this point, I refuse to let anyone _else_ suffer,” he murmurs.

Minerva nods. “Quite,” she responds, eying the Carrow twins in displeasure. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Nizar.”

“And you.” Then Nizar stands and gestures for the twins to grab their belongings and follow him out of the classroom. “Do not disobey my instructions again,” he says to their resentful faces. “Believe me, I can come up with ever so much worse.”

“Of course not. Sir,” Hestia replies, and then follows her twin towards the dungeons.

Nizar watches them go and sighs. “Miniature little damned Death Eaters already,” he mutters. The moment the twins learned that Nizar was a Half-blood, they’d disdained his entire existence, portrait or otherwise. They flat-out refuse to believe that Salazar could have been the same.

He goes back upstairs and leaves the classroom door propped open for any visiting or curious students before he leaves his office door open and sits down, trying to remember who wrote which book based on handwriting alone. They didn’t sign books the same way authors began to in later centuries. Writing a book hadn’t been about prestige, but in making sure the knowledge was recorded and available.

One is Nizar’s own, but he doesn’t recognize it by handwriting, only by content. His script must have changed over the centuries as he wrote within the confines of the portrait—not unheard of, given how handwriting changes over the course of a lifetime. Nizar shakes his head puts the book on blood magic use aside. The Ministry would likely try to imprison him just for owning it. Idiots.

The odd part is that it’s the only book in his office and quarters with that handwriting. Nizar shuts his office door and heads out, taking the stairs down to the fourth floor. In a quiet passage that doesn’t seem to see much use is a life-sized portrait of a young woman with black hair, brown eyes with hints of red and gold, and bronze skin.

“ _Hello, Fortunata_ ,” he greets her in Parseltongue.

Fortunata smiles. “ _Hello, Uncle. I’ve been hoping you would come to see me_!”

“ _I’ve been having trouble with certain early memories_ ,” Nizar says. “ _I had to remember where to find you. I’m also trying to find certain books, and I was wondering if your father kept any inside_.”

Fortunata’s smile falters. “ _I’m so sorry, Uncle. I can’t let you in_.”

Nizar frowns. “ _Why not, dearest_?”

“ _Father’s last instructions to me were very specific_.” Fortunata looks miserable at not being able to grant his request. “ _I’m to let no one inside until the day he returns and tells me otherwise_.”

“ _Oh—no, don’t feel bad. That isn’t your fault. I just…I don’t think he’s coming back_.”

Fortunata bows her head. “ _I still cannot go against his word, Uncle_.”

“ _Nor would I expect you to do so. Tell me what became of you after 1017, dearest. I’d love to know the conclusion of your courtship with that lovely fellow in Zamora. What was his name again_?”

“ _Ximeno Sens of House of the Thorned Vine. A new magical family, but they were honored for defence of their lands during the Reconquista…_ ”

Nizar spends at least fifteen minutes conversing with Fortunata, who succeeded in her courtship of Ximeno and bore two children before personal updates to her portrait ceased. Nizar is relieved to find that Salazar informed the portrait that it was politics keeping Fortunata away from Moray, not an early death. He makes his apologies and goes back upstairs. He would either linger all day, or he’d stumble onto a subject that would drive grief back into the forefront of his thoughts.

Now he’s lying to himself. It resides there, anyway.

Nizar slows his steps when the castle’s magic informs him that someone is in his classroom, and it isn’t a student or a teacher. Curious, he muffles the sound of his steps and peers into the room.

A man with sleek white hair and black clothing is in the midst of placing his hand on the door of Nizar’s office. He watches as the man jerks his hand back, swearing under his breath as he shakes the jolt of magic from his fingers.

“Attempting to open another’s door without permission is considered quite rude, you know.”

His guest does a very good job of pretending that he was not just caught putting their nose where it doesn’t belong. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you like to think so,” Nizar counters. “May I help you?”

The man’s cold blue eyes take in Nizar’s green and silver-edged robes. “I’d hoped to introduce myself, actually. I’m—”

“I know who you are, Lucius,” Nizar interrupts him. “Your attempts at subterfuge have not improved with adulthood.”

Lucius Malfoy’s eyes narrow before he catches himself and schools his face back to polite stillness. “Perhaps not. You look a bit more lively when not bound by canvas, Master Slytherin.”

Nizar smiles, thinking on what would make Lucius believe they were on more even social footing. Maybe it would improve the nature of his insults. “It’s _Professor_ , actually. In particular, Professor Nizar Hariwalt de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castile y Moravia.” _Castilla_ would be proper, but Lucius was not a very good student.

“Spanish. I see,” Lucius murmurs.

“Your history is a bit lacking, Lucius. Spain was not a singular collection of kingdoms until the Spanish Empire. Salazar was a Marqués of León, not Spain.”

“You are nobility, then?”

Nizar tilts his head. “Our sister enjoyed Court more than we. Shall I repeat my first question?”

Lucius nods, as if he confirmed something useful. “I’ve come on behalf of my son, actually.”

“You’ve forgotten how to write letters?” Nizar asks, feigning genuine concern.

Lucius’s face twitches before he recovers himself again. “Draco told me of how his Defence class went on Wednesday, and admitted that he did…badly.”

 _I imagine that he admitted no such thing,_ Nizar thinks, but it seems Severus was correct about Draco making that blunder. “And?”

“I admit to disappointment,” Lucius says. “I’d thought he was better educated on the uses of a wand by now, but it seems I was mistaken. I wondered if you would consent to assist him. I’m sure as someone of such…excellent breeding, you might understand my concerns.”

Nizar wonders what it cost Lucius to say “excellent breeding” without sneering. One must be both white and British to earn that label in Lucius’s eyes. “I understand your fears exactly.”

Lucius deigns to smile. “Excellent. I would be most gracious if you would assist him in this matter. I can be very generous.”

Nizar lifts his eyebrows. “Why, Lucius Abraxus Malfoy: are you suggesting I should take money from you in exchange for ignoring your son’s failings?”

“I would not put it so crassly,” Lucius sniffs, resting his silver-headed cane across his arm

“Pretty words do not alter the nature of blackmail.” Nizar smiles. “Draco’s education is, of course, one of my highest priorities.”

“Excellent. I’m so glad we speak each other’s languages.” Lucius bows his head, the precise gesture of respect a noble man would offer another of similar rank, and takes his leave without waiting for an acknowledgement.

Nizar rolls his eyes and conjures his Patronus. “Find Draco Malfoy and tell him to come see me in my classroom.”

Nizar is again sorting books by matching handwriting, if not yet by author, when Draco Malfoy enters the room, Crabbe and Goyle on his heels. Nizar glances at them. “Did you adopt siblings in the past twenty-four hours, Mister Malfoy?”

Malfoy rounds on his friends. “I told you two to _wait outside_ ,” he whispers harshly, and shuts the door in their faces after they’ve backed up in surprise. “You wanted to see me, sir?” He pauses. “Am I in trouble, sir?”

“Have you done anything that would cause you to be so, Mister Malfoy?”

“No, sir!” Malfoy says, too quickly. “Not at all.”

Nizar looks at him for a full minute until Malfoy flushes and glances away, blushing. “Don’t let me find out otherwise, Mister Malfoy. You do not want to be caught lying to me.”

“No, sir.” Malfoy lifts his chin. “What is it, Professor?”

“I was wondering if you’d written to your parents this week, Mister Malfoy.”

“I—only my mother, Professor,” Malfoy says, frowning.

“Ah. Good choice,” Nizar murmurs. “If it isn’t too personal, do you mind telling me what you discussed with her?”

“Well…” Malfoy swallows. “It was about Wednesday afternoon’s lesson, sir. I was confiding my concerns about how I was…about how my education hadn’t prepared me to be as capable as I should have been that day. Her reply today, of course, told me to pay close attention to a teacher that is bothering to instruct us properly. But why do you need to know, sir?”

“Your mother isn’t one to share her correspondence with your father, is she?” Nizar asks, but he already knows the answer. Narcissa was a Black long before she was a Malfoy; Blacks value their sense of autonomy.

Malfoy scowls. “My father was here?”

“He was. He seemed quite concerned as to your education,” Nizar says. “Granted, the extent of his concern only lent itself towards bribing me into giving you high marks no matter your effort.”

“But—” Malfoy looks politely infuriated. “How is that supposed to help me get better at using a wand, whether it’s defence or offence?”

“I’d worry that it didn’t seem to be of concern to him, yes.” Nizar gives Malfoy an approving look. “I would not want to be in your father’s shoes when Narcissa learns that he read her mail without permission.”

Malfoy’s expression melts into unhappiness. “Do you think she’d kill him?”

“Mister Malfoy, I think that if your mother ever decided to do away with your father, she would sit down with you well in advance, tell you, and then discuss every single thing Lucius Malfoy had done to earn the pleasure,” Nizar replies.

“You like my mother, don’t you?”

Nizar smiles. “She did not speak to me often, but when she did, she was both thoughtful and polite, as was your aunt Andromeda. Your aunt Bellatrix, on the other hand, was a raving lunatic from birth.”

“Mother has…intimated such.” Malfoy hesitates a moment. “Did you accept the bribe, sir?”

“I didn’t say yes, but I was very circumspect in the way I countered his offer. Of course, your father is a prime example of why I teach verbal defence,” Nizar says. “He was so preoccupied with thinking himself better than myself that he didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the words I used. Please continue to emulate Narcissa.”

“Mother has been very insistent on that matter, too,” Malfoy admits. “What are you going to do if he sends you money, sir?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll think of something.” Nizar gives Malfoy a careful examination. “Is there something else you wish to say?”

Malfoy twitches in place, like he tried to fidget and restrained himself. “Yes, sir, but it’s not about the money. I’m struggling still with things you’ve told us about yourself, Salazar Deslizarse, and about _him._ I have made one clear decision, though.”

“Oh?”

Malfoy nods. “I have no wish to die for a hypocrite, sir.”

“No matter what else you decide upon, that is a very good life philosophy, Mister Malfoy.” Nizar gestures to the door. “Go on. I don’t know about you, but I missed lunch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” When Malfoy leaves, he’s careful to shut the door behind him.

Nizar leans back in his seat, pleased. “Hello, progress.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Sunday morning is a repeat of the same early rising, to his irritation, but he remembers something useful once he’s washing his face after shaving. He doesn’t know if it’s still there, but the only way to find out is to go look.

The wall that hides the Slytherin Common Room opens to Parseltongue, as do most things in the dungeons except Severus’s quarters. Quite possibly Severus has safeguarded other things, too, but Nizar has felt no need to pry. The room is empty, as most of the Slytherins wisely sleep late on weekends. His gaze is drawn immediately to the fireplace; the portrait of Salazar he’d found abandoned inside a storage room, from the 1015 set, has the view Nizar had enjoyed for too long.

“ _Good morning_.”

“ _Do you still not sleep at night_?” Salazar asks, but he doesn’t look surprised.

Nizar sits down on the sofa in front of him, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles before the fire. It’s cold enough in the dungeons that the heat is pleasant. “ _Apparently not. Preservation Charms preserve all of the wrong things, it seems. How are you enjoying your Slytherins_?”

“ _I want to hug the stuffing out of half of them and hex the other, but I’ve held that opinion for a good two centuries now._ ”

Nizar nods. “ _It’ll get better_.”

Salazar scowls. “ _I can’t possibly see it getting any worse_.”

He’s still conversing with Salazar when Astoria Greengrass stumbles into the room from the dormitory stairwell. “Sir?”

“Good morning, Astoria.” Nizar says, a greeting echoed by Salazar before he mutters something in Parseltongue about “idiots” and vanishes from his frame. Whoever has just blundered enough to earn Salazar’s direct attention deserves their roasted ears.

Astoria bites her lip. “Er…are you supposed to be here, sir?”

Nizar smiles. “I lived here for nearly a thousand years. I think I’ve a right to sit here whenever I like. Don’t you?” He pats the sofa. “Come on. I refuse to be formal on a weekend if I don’t have to be.”

Astoria has always been charming company, if also very, very shy in her first two years at Hogwarts. Now in her third year, she’s growing into a fascinating conversationalist. If anyone is going to be a mad success at verbal defence, she is on that very short list.

By the time his Slytherins have truly begun to rouse for the day, searching for breakfast, he’s been joined by Daphne Greengrass, Kinjal Bhatia, Amrish Gupta, Draco Malfoy, Maxwell Harper, and Blaise Zabini. It takes a bit of encouragement, but before long they’re all indulging in one of their former weekend pastimes—lots and lots of gossip. The activity kept his portrait well informed not that long ago. Nizar also hasn’t forgotten what Severus once asked of him—to be the one who can demonstrate to their students what being a Slytherin really means.

“What are you doing in here?” Adrian Pucey bleats when he emerges from the stairwell. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

“I lived here for a thousand years, you idiot,” Nizar retorts in response to the young man’s complete lack of manners. “If we’re discussing who has the right to dwell where, then I’ve quite a number of years on you.”

“I’m going to breakfast,” Adrian snarls, and stalks off.

“Don’t mind him,” Maxwell says. “He’s always a right arse before breakfast, sir.”

Blaise rolls his eyes. “He’s a right arse _all_ of the time.”

Kinjal looks like she might faint. “Stop it! Stop it; he’s a _teacher_! We lose enough points. You don’t need to swear in front of him, too!”

“It’s Saturday.” Nizar smiles. “Besides, I’m not going to take points for accuracy.”

“You don’t take or give points at all,” Draco says. “Not in any class!”

“Imagine that.” Nizar tilts his head and peers at one particular stone on the wall between the column of the fireplace and the corner. There is nothing to distinguish it from the others, not even a seam. “Do you lot want breakfast, or do you want to learn a secret?”

Seven Slytherins look at him like he’s an idiot. “Secret,” they all say at once.

“Besides, it’s not like we don’t know how to find the kitchen,” Amrish says with a practical air.

“Good point. Please show me where it is, too. Someone hid the staircase.” Nizar gets up and puts his hand on the stone. “Like most things in the dungeon, there is a trick to it. Nothing is easy to find, is it?”

“No,” Daphne rolls her eyes. “We’ve rescued so many firsties who’ve gotten lost down here.”

“I think it’s a tradition to get good and lost down here during your first week.” Nizar shoves the stone in as far as it will go. “Come on, hop up here, all the way onto the flagstones,” he says, watching the stone slowly slide back into position. “It’s on a timer.”

Nizar is fortunate that everyone except Harper is built like a twig, else there wouldn’t be room for them all. He grabs ahold of the shelf above the fireplace out of habit while snagging Astoria’s shoulder with the other as the entire fireplace abruptly rotates around to complete darkness.

“Whoa,” Blaise whispers as they all step off of the hearthstones. The moment their weight is off of it, the fireplace rotates again. “This is grand!”

“Except for the fact that it’s _dark_ ,” Draco says. “ _Lumos_.”

Nizar smiles as six other Slytherins belatedly copy Draco’s practicality. “Well?”

“Holy shit,” Kinjal squeaks, and then blushes scarlet. “Uh—I mean it’s neat.”

“How do we get back out?” Daphne asks.

Nizar lowers his wand to point at a much more obvious trigger stone on this side of the stone wall. “Load everyone up and give that a good, solid kick.”

Astoria bounces in place. “More secret tunnels! I love our dungeons.”

“The tunnel isn’t the only reason why we’re here. Come on.” Nizar leads them forward, alert for crumbled piles of rock, cracks, or roots that would mean the passage wasn’t safe. There aren’t any; the others were too damned good at their jobs, and Salazar was particular about caverns. The other students follow, their voices hushed as they discuss the tunnel, a new secret to lord over the others, and—as if he is somehow deaf—Nizar. He smiles where they can’t see it. Some of them never do learn that teachers are selectively deaf, not deaf in truth.

It isn’t long before the tunnel branches out onto a wide-open stretch, and the scent of rock and water strikes him full in the face. “Wait,” Nizar tells them, and lifts his wand. “ _Omnes illuminate_.” Scones built onto the walls burst into flame, one pair after the next, until the entire cavern is illuminated.

“Oh, wow!” Astoria is bouncing again. “Is this part of the Black Lake?”

“It is.” Nizar gazes out at the water, which appears pitch black but for the multicolored flame now rippling across the surface. A series of rounded rocks, fallen from the ceiling long ago, litter the water on either side of the cave. The water isn’t rough enough to do anything more than gently caress the pebbled beach, which gives way to smooth stone leading to the tunnel mouth.

“We’ve got our own private beach. Nice,” Blaise says.

“And without sunlight, it’s freezing,” Draco returns irritably. “What good is it?”

Nizar smiles. “We swam in it anyway. It’s warmer down here in the winter than it is near the surface outside.”

Daphne is a bit more sensible in her concerns. “How is this not underwater, like our dormitories? We’ve gone deeper underground, not higher.”

“Something about the air pressure in the cave. To my knowledge, it’s never flooded, no matter how much Scotland’s weather tries.” Nizar points his wand again, casting a silent retrieving charm. There is still a rope tied to one of far boulders on the right-hand side, but when it rises out of the water, the end of it is nothing but rotten shreds.

Amrish is the first to notice his expression, and the floating rope. “Dual purposes, sir?”

“I wanted to see if something was still here, and you lot deserved to know more about your home. Why not?” Nizar counters, trying not to grimace. There was no swimming to be done in a portrait frame; it’s been a long time since he’s been in the water. “Who wants to be on basilisk-sitting duty?”

Kinjal all but lunges forward, beating out Maxwell. “I’ll do it! I love snakes.”

“Probably a little too much,” Maxwell grumbles under his breath, and then winces when he sees the look Nizar is giving him. “Er. Sorry, Kinjal.”

Kinjal is busy grinning over Kanza, who is trying to weave her way between all of the young woman’s fingers. “Whatever, Max.”

“Maxwell! Geeze, woman! I’m not some blasted Mu—” Maxwell nearly strangles himself before he can truly blunder. “Uhm…Muggle?”

Nizar shakes his head. “That’s an insult too, you know.”

“Is it?” Draco perks up with interest. “Why? Is it as bad as—”

“No, it isn’t as bad as the other term.” Nizar sighs. “I don’t remember why it’s an insult.”

Astoria’s excitement fades a bit. “Because the Preservation Charm went wrong, sir?”

“Most likely.” Nizar clamps his wand between his teeth and pulls his robe off over his head, bundling it up and handing it to Daphne when she offers to hold it. Then he toes off his boots, and hopes his expression doesn’t reflect how much he’d rather not swim in the Black Lake during the last week of November.

“You’re actually going in there?” Maxwell asks in disbelief. “We already know you’re mental, sir. You don’t have to go and prove it.”

“He’s looking for something, dingbat,” Amrish says. “Probably whatever was supposed to be on the other end of that rope.”

Nizar nods and shoves his wand up his shirtsleeve, making sure the cuff is tight. “The rope would have been under a Preservation Charm, too, but without direct access to an energy source, like the castle, the magic breaks down over time.”

“Are you sure someone didn’t cut the rope and leave with it, sir?” Daphne asks. “Whatever it is you’re looking for?”

“There used to be eight ropes, four on each side. If the contents had been taken, the ropes would have been untied instead of being left to rot. Of course, it could be exactly that—someone in a hurry cutting the rope.” Nizar peels off his socks and stuffs them into his boots.

“Because it used to be an escape route. They would have hidden things here that were useful if you didn’t have time to pack up,” Astoria says thoughtfully. “Do you think your—your brother left you something here?”

“It would be rotten by now.” Blaise doesn’t look convinced, though.

“If stored correctly, this water also acted as a method of chilled preservation.” Nizar turns to the students. “Now listen. The Black Lake has merfolk, who will leave you alone unless you go out of your way to anger them. But it also has…”

“Grindylows!” Astoria bursts out, and then clamps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

Nizar only nods. “Yes. The very first thing you all have to do is absolutely swear that, no matter who you tell of this place, you must pass on one very important rule: you cannot come down here alone, even if you have no plans on going into the water. Not ever. Cold water can kill you if you don’t take proper precautions, and while Grindylows are easily dealt with if it’s only one or two, an entire troubling of Grindylows can kill you if you’re not prepared.”

He waits until he hears seven truthful affirmations. These are the smarter students of his brother’s House. They know when to take him seriously, if only because he’s issued so few dire warnings outside of their new classroom interactions.

“And here is where I prove how serious I am about this. I’m going in the water, yes, but I’m not here alone, am I?” Nizar smiles when they shake their heads. “I’m also going to ask one of you with a watch to set a timer. I’ll have a breathing charm, but if five minutes pass by and you don’t see me? For gods’ sake, please go find your Head of House. Do _not_ enter the water. If a new danger has moved in while I’ve been inconvenienced by portrait magic, then none of you are prepared for it any more than I am. Got it?”

“I am much less enthused about the idea of a private beach,” Blaise says.

“If it’s verified safe, you can enjoy the idea again. Kanza, behave yourself.”

Kanza pauses in the midst of twining herself around Kinjal’s wrist. “ _I am perfectly behaved. You’re the one who is going into the cold place_.”

“ _Brat,_ ” Nizar murmurs, and steps out onto the first rock. The students immediately flock around the water’s edge, but don’t even put so much as a boot-tip in. He slides on the second rock, grits his teeth, and then spells the rest of the rocks dry and algae free before continuing. When he makes it to the last rock, the largest, he squats down and reaches into the water to fish the rope back out again to study the end. It’s definitely water rot that felled it, not a blade. It’s too uneven, and nothing but exceptionally stubborn goats will eat magically crafted rope.

If he thought the water was cold when he retrieved the rope, it’s nothing compared to when he jumps in and a fucking sheet of liquid ice closes over his head. “Fuck!” he gasps out in a stream of bubbles before surfacing. “That is a lot colder than I bloody well remember it being!”

“We could have told you that, sir!” Blaise shouts.

Daphne glares at Blaise. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. Start the timer, will you?” he requests, and dives under again. It takes a moment of non-verbal casting with his wand to create a breathing charm that covers only his nose and mouth. He hates the full Bubblehead Charm that is taught now, which strikes him as being ridiculous overkill. Then again, like other things, maybe they simply don’t know the original.

He’s gotten better at Metamorph magic, practicing when he hasn’t been able to sleep. When he creates webbing between his fingers and toes for easier swimming, he isn’t struggling to hold onto the change.

Nizar swims down, using the rope in the water as a line of sight to attempt to find what it once held. He needs to light his wand almost at once to cut through the murk, which throws wide shadows from high streamers of green growing up from the bottom. What was the depth, originally? He converts the old measurements in his head. Thirty feet, perhaps, though it deepens to fifty feet at the end of the cave, where one has to swim down much further to find the cave’s exit.

He spies the tattered end of the other half of the rope at the same time as something grabs ahold of his foot. Nizar glances down and frowns at the Grindylow tugging on him. He’d tell it to stop, but the little irritants don’t understand human tongues. Mermish is _not_ one of Nizar’s talents—too much screeching. Instead, he hexes the Grindylow’s fingers, which makes it squeal in pain and retreat back into the grass.

It’s odd, though. It seems so much brighter than it should be, brighter than a wand. This is like being out in the depths of the Black Lake during the middle of the afternoon.

Something grabs his arm. Nizar startles and nearly hexes whatever is grasping him before he realizes it’s Severus. He’s stripped down to his shirt and trousers, and the glare on his face could probably turn a glacier to steam.

“Why are you here?” he mouths, baffled. The odd lighting from a moment ago is gone, and the only light is coming from their wands.

Severus’s glare intensifies before he gestures for them to go up.

Nizar shakes his head and holds up one finger. He’s found the other end of the rope, and it’s tied to the remains of a net sitting on the bottom of the lake. A small wooden trunk, still sealed and showing no signs of damage, is within those rotten remains. Nizar grabs the handle on the side, frowns, and then taps his wand against the wood for a quick Feather-light charm. Then he kicks for the surface.

They break the water at the same time, and Nizar kills the breathing charm. “So much warmer,” he gasps in relief.

“That better be the bloody Ark of the Covenant, Nizar!” Severus snaps at him.

“Knowing Salazar, I really wouldn’t be surprised,” Nizar offers, which makes Severus roll his eyes.

It’s a little more difficult to swim in clothes while also dragging a trunk, but he does well enough that it isn’t long at all before they’re sloshing their way onto the beach. Nizar drops the trunk and promptly sits down on it. “What are you doing down here?” he asks again, right before he’s nearly sent tumbling to the ground by Astoria’s lunging hug.

“Because you were gone for more than five minutes!” she chokes out.

Nizar stares at the others. “What?”

“She’s right.” Draco holds up a gold pocket watch etched with fleur-de-lis. “By the time Maxwell got back with Professor Snape, you were at seven minutes and thirty seconds.”

“What _happened_?” Astoria asks.

Nizar pats her shoulder, leaving a damp spot on her jumper. The appearance of his hands also reminds him to morph his fingers back to normal. “Nothing, Astoria. It just seems that I truly do need a watch, since I can’t gauge time accurately.”

Severus narrows his eyes, but doesn’t call him out on the suspected lie. “I do hope that was worth risking hypothermia.”

“It would be funny if it was empty, right?” Nizar asks him.

That earns Nizar a baleful stare. “No,” Severus replies, and uses his wand to dry off. Nizar casts a drying and warming charm after he realizes that his clothes are steaming into the air, and he’s bloody _freezing_.

“We get to see the inside, right sir?” Blaise asks innocently. “Since we might’ve saved your life and all.”

Nizar smirks at them and stands up. “All right. You can see inside, and that’s all.”

“Oh—bugger it!” Blaise swears when he realizes the wording mistake, and Daphne laughs at him.

“Too late now.” Nizar runs his hands along the side of the chest before he finds the edge of metal, blasting away countless centuries of underwater grime with his wand. The silver hasp is plain, but it burns with magic at his touch. “Salazar.”

All of the students jerk in surprise, but Severus gives him a sharp look. “You’re certain?”

“It’s keyed to me, and me alone, so…yes.” Nizar uses his wand to slice open the tip of his finger and smears the blood along the hasp, which snaps open. “See?”

“Creepy,” Maxwell announces.

Nizar tries not to frown in annoyance. “Effective security, Mister Harper.” He hopes the others catch on to that shift in formality. Severus would consider the formalities between Nizar and their students to be his business, but Snape the spy would _not_. Granted, right now even Severus might stop in the midst of putting his shoes back on and hex the lot of them.

Inside the trunk is an entirely dry environment, spellwork that must have taken months to finalize. Nizar rests his hands on the inside and knows at once that the movement of water fueled the magic, which is so blasted ingenious it has to be Rowena’s work.

“That’s a lot of bottles,” Amish says of the rows of gleaming clear glass, stoppered and sealed with wax.

“Secondary preservation in case the magic on the wood failed,” Nizar murmurs, selecting the bottle at the bottom right—the only one marked with a glob of green wax on the top. That would be where he is meant to start, then. When he draws it out, there is a bound scroll visible inside, stamped with their family seal in more green wax.

“Is that…from him?” Kinjal is clasping both her hands together in a way that makes Kanza flick her tail in irritation. “From Salazar Slytherin?”

Nizar nods. He is trying to figure out why he’s been seized by an irrational desire to slam the trunk closed and toss the entire thing back into the lake.

“Are you going to open it?” Draco asks, wide-eyed.

He nods again and cracks the wax seal on the bottle by twisting the stopper. A whiff of lavender and sea-salted wind comes to his nose, nearly making him break down over the open trunk. Before he can hesitate further, he turns the bottle upside down and retrieves the scroll. The spells on the trunk were excellent; the paper feels new.

Nizar breaks the seal on the scroll and unrolls it, feeling his head swim as he notices the date. His control is better than that, dammit. He closes his eyes and breathes until he knows he can look at it without making a fool of himself. The only reason he reads it where he stands is the language Salazar used—old Castilian, now most often referred to as Medieval Spanish.

 

_Salazar Fernan,_ _Marqués_ _de el Reino de León y Castilla durante el reinado de Ferdinand I, Casa de Deslizarse de_ _Ipuzko_ _y Moravia_

_Moray in the Kingdom of Alba under the Reign of High King Mac Bethad mac Findlaích, the Red King, 30 th October in the year 1,039_

_To Nizar Hariwalt, el Lord de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castilla y Moravia_

_Dearest Brother,_

_It’s your fault I can’t compose a proper letter anymore, you and your unnecessary greetings. The recipient knows full well who a letter is intended for by the time it comes into their hands._

_Gods, but I miss you. I’ve been a complete horror to live with since Marion died, and knowing what I must now do to the others is breaking the rest of my aging heart._

_I’m a coward, Nizar. I lied to my own portraits when I performed the updating spells today._

_I could not go to see your portrait for the last time, knowing that we would both be aware it was exactly that. You’re handling this separation better than I—we suspect it’s an effect of the altered Preservation Charms. I hope to all the gods of my childhood that this is so._

_I have no charm to benefit from. I only have the dire certainty that if I faced you one last time, I would not leave, and I must._

_I hope the years since our parting have found you safe and secure, and that you’ve lost nothing to time. If you’ve found it to be otherwise, there is another scroll in your own quarters that should answer your questions. I told you I’d leave a reminder behind of its existence, and can only hope you’ve not lost so much that you forget the lake and the treasures we once sunk in its depths._

_What remains in this trunk are missives of import from what became of our lives here. Memories are faulty even when magic is not at play, and I thought you’d prefer to have a record. I have my own that I shall keep with me, as I will also have your gift and the safety it offers._

_I leave tomorrow. Godric is in a foul mood. Helga is ill so often, and Rowena begins to drift away from us now that Helena and Edvard have returned here as spirits._

_I don’t want to abandon them, but I left myself no choice. I’ve truly come to understand your hatred of the concept of duty. It’s become my new favorite curse to place upon another._

_All my love,_

_Sal_

 

“Sir?” Kinjal ventures. No, repeats; they’ve been trying to get his attention for at least a full minute, if not longer.

Nizar rolls up the scroll, his chest aching like he’d truly been caught underwater for too long without air. By some miracle, he’s not weeping, but he’s already been grieving for weeks now.

“It is from him, isn’t it.” Daphne states, not asking a question at all.

Nizar nods. “It is, yes. He wrote it the day before he left Hogewáþ in 1039.”

“What does it say?” Kinjal asks in an awed voice. There are seven Slytherin students and one teacher who are all radiating the desperate, hungry curiosity that is particular to their House alone. Nizar can’t admit that and then tell them nothing.

“Salazar didn’t want to go, but knew if he didn’t, then he never would. Helga was…Helga was dying. I know your first thought is still to mock, but she was as much his friend as Godric, as was Rowena.”

“What happened to her?” Astoria asks in quiet horror.

“I…” Nizar frowns as he taps the wax remnants long enough to reseal the scroll and put it back in its bottle. “The first time she fell ill, it was 1018. Given how often she would recover only for it to return, I suspect it was cancer. We didn’t refer to it that way then, but we knew it for a malignancy in the body.”

He’s not surprised when Astoria darts forward and hugs him again. “I’m so sorry.”

Nizar gives her a brief hug and releases her. “And I appreciate that.” He tucks the bottle back into the trunk and closes the lid. As if sensing that the moment is over, Daphne gives him back his robe. Once he’s dressed again, Kinjal returns Kanza. The basilisk curls up around his neck and grumbles about the chill clinging to his skin.

 He has to consider the magic built into the wood before he dares to shrink it down to something he can place in a robe pocket. When he turns around, Severus is staring at the cave and the water. “A way out?” he asks.

“Yes. A safety precaution, but for those who are thick-skinned, it was also a place to swim in the winter without fighting the ice.”

“It’s a Scottish lake in the Highlands,” Severus says in blatant rejection of that idea. “However, I am not opposed to students coming down here, provided they do so in safety.”

“We’ve already been handed the law regarding this place from Professor Slytherin, sir,” Draco says. “I believe the foremost rule was: never alone.”

“Exactly. However, none of you have eaten yet, so if you want to explore, you’re doing it _later_ ,” Nizar emphasizes, making shooing gestures with his hands. “Go on. It will still be here after breakfast.”

“We can sort that out in my office,” Severus murmurs, a tone that brooks no argument. Nizar merely nods, unopposed.

Nizar places the chest on the empty workbench in Severus’s office when they arrive, bringing it back to full size while Severus activates the wards on the door. The moment that’s done, Severus is hissing, “What in the hell _happened_?”

“I don’t know.” Nizar flops down in one of the office’s leather armchairs. Kanza unwinds herself from his neck, glides down his sleeve, and races straight for the warm hearth in front of the fireplace. “Everything was normal except for one moment.”

Severus opens a cabinet to begin sorting through phials. “Go on.”

“I swam down searching for that trunk. I encountered a Grindylow, the little shit, dealt with it…and for a moment it was like I was swimming outside with daylight illuminating the water. Then you startled me.”

Severus pauses and glances at him, brow furrowed. “Just for a moment? How long did it feel like you were in the water?”

“About two minutes. Perhaps less.”

Severus closes the cabinet and walks over with two phials in his hand. “Then the moment that felt like daylight was when you lost at least five minutes of time.”

Nizar accepts one of the phials when it’s held out to him. “It had to have been, but it felt like seconds. What is this?”

“Perhaps the Preservation Charm has inconvenient timing,” Severus suggests. “It’s a bloody Pepper-Up. Unless you want to deal with Pomfrey, I suggest you drink it.”

Nizar eyes him. “You must be desperate if you’re doing the same.”

Severus glares at him. “It’s a fucking Scottish lake at the end of November. Drink the damned potion.”

“Fine.” Nizar really doesn’t want to deal with the healer, not twice in a single month. “I’ve swum in that lake, both in the cave and outside, hundreds of times, Severus. I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned with.”

“Aside from losing track of time while in an underwater cave that’s infested with water demons,” Severus says dryly.

“Aside from that.” Nizar smiles. “Why do you think I took an escort?”

“Because you’re not a reckless bloody Gryffindor.”

“Severus.” Nizar looks up at the man, trying not to sigh. “Godric was the only one of the four to die of old age. I might not remember specifics, but I remember that. I know what part you must play in public, but try not to let House prejudices rule you in private.”

Severus caps the empty phial, ignoring the side effects with as much dignity as he knows how to muster—which is quite a bit. He would have been terrifying at Court. “I am…trying. It’s lifelong habit, Nizar.”

“I know.” Nizar abandons the chair and goes back to the trunk again, opening the lid when the magic recognizes him by touch instead of by blood. At least he won’t have to stab himself every time he wants to open it. He goes to the upper left-hand corner, where the records should start, and instead draws out a full, sealed bottle full of clear liquid. “Oh, Sal,” he whispers, smiling. “You shouldn’t have.”

“What is it?”

Nizar grins at Severus. “Do Pepper-Up and alcohol mix well?”

“As long as one isn’t drinking to excess, it’s fine.” Severus takes the bottle from his hand when he offers it. “What is it?”

“Death in a Bottle, Severus. It’s the distilled alcohol Salazar and I used to make. There are two bottles of it in here.”

Severus’s lips quirk up in a smile. “Clearly he thought you might need alcoholic fortitude in 1995.”

Nizar snorts, taking the bottle back and cracking the seal. “He wasn’t fucking wrong. Do you have any small glassware?”

“This is my office, and I’m a Potions Master. What do you think?” Severus asks, rolling his eyes as he retrieves two very small measuring glasses. “Point seven-five ounces.”

“Good. Anything else might potentially floor us both.” Nizar sniffs what’s emerging from the bottle, which smells as sweet as he remembers. He fills both of the tiny glasses and shoves the stopper back into place.

Severus picks up the tiny glass and eyes the clear liquid. “I’d voice concerns about drinking something you call Death in a bloody Bottle, but I’d be a hypocrite.”

“At least this doesn’t try to set you on fire.” Nizar takes a sip and sighs as complex sweetness without a hint of a burn blooms over his tongue.

Severus mimes the sip and looks startled. “Ah; the name really is a warning. It doesn’t taste like alcohol at all.”

“And it would be easy to die drinking this if you didn’t understand how potent it was.” Nizar smiles at him. “You’re holding the only alcohol that ever conquered Helga’s Norse constitution. She hexed us both after she sobered up.”

“And what condition were the rest of you in?” Severus asks, finishing the rest of the liquor.

Nizar does the same, holding the liquid in his mouth until he can detect the blaeberries and dried juniper spice. “We had no idea what it was capable of the first night we tried it. That was the worst…” He pauses. “Modern word—oh, right. That was the worst hangover I’ve ever had.”

Severus smirks at him. “The hexing must have been spectacularly effective.”

“Chaotic, more like.” Nizar puts the glass down. “Godric woke up, saw that Helga had decided to start a retaliatory war, and joined in. Salazar took aim and fired a babbling hex at Godric. Godric ducked, his hat took the spell, and the damned thing hasn’t shut up since that day.”

“That’s the reason the Sorting Hat exists. A morning-after hungover magical brawl,” Severus says, giving him a look of complete disbelief.

“Not entirely. Godric’s magic—it wasn’t something he consciously did, but his magic tended to have odd effects on things that spent a great deal of time around him or on his person. That babbling hex should have done nothing to a hat, but because it was _Godric’s_ hat, we then had a talking bit of alcohol-soaked felt. Rowena thought it was hilarious and immediately decided it was meant to have a purpose.”

Severus shakes his head. “You are destroying every grand image I ever had of the Founders.”

“I’ve been doing my best to destroy that since 1971,” Nizar says, grinning. “We were just people, Severus. We were magically talented, kind, vicious lunatics, but we were also just people.” Nizar looks down as Kanza hisses at him to be picked up. He retrieves her, letting her return to her place around his neck, which she announces is properly warm again.

“I’d…I’d like to have met him. Your brother.” Severus glances at the rows of sealed bottles. “He sounds like an intriguing person.”

“He’d have liked you,” Nizar says, and Severus looks at him in surprise. “He was a talented magician in many ways, but brewing was one of his favorite pastimes.”

Nizar feels vague exhilaration and nerves settle into his gut as he realizes that yes, he is probably about to do something very foolish fueled by alcohol. “Severus, if I were to do something very forward right now, would you mind?”

Severus’s curious expression turns to bafflement. “I—I suppose not?”

Before he can talk himself out of it, Nizar crosses the space between them and kisses Severus. The man makes a startled noise, low-pitched, one that sounds like a purr that doesn’t know how to begin. Then Severus grasps Nizar’s shoulder and deepens the kiss, dry warmth turning to moist heat.

When they break apart, Severus stares at him, a wary expression on his face. “Why did you do that?”

“Well, perhaps it’s a recent development,” Nizar says in a thoughtful tone. “Or perhaps I’ve wanted to do that since 1982.”

The wary look fades, though it doesn’t leave entirely. “1982?”

Nizar reaches up and runs his fingers through a strand of Severus’s hair. He’s always heard the cruel jokes about greasy hair, insults slung by fools. Severus’s hair is like touching threads of true silk. “I wanted to be there for you, and I couldn’t. That isn’t the only reason, but I imagine it started there.”

Severus takes his hand in a gentle grip and lowers it. “I’m not—Nizar, I’m not a good person.”

Nizar lifts an eyebrow. “Did you miss the part where I told you I used magic to turn a grown man into bits that could be carried about in a chamber pot? I know you, Severus Prince Snape. I’ll answer any question you ever ask of me to grant you the same. And,” he continues, when he sees Severus draw in a breath to speak, “I don’t care if you’re not ready for anything more than this. I lived in a fucking painting for nearly a millennium. I can wait, and if it never comes to pass? I will never stop being your friend.”

Severus scowls at him. “How can you be so bloody _reasonable_?”

That isn’t quite the reaction Nizar expected. “Because I eviscerate my enemies and honor my friends?”

His words earn him a sudden burst of silent laughter before Severus drops his hand. “And now I have to wonder what you and your brother were like together when it came to the former.”

Nizar shrugs. “Terrifying? We all were, though. Just in different ways.”

Severus cleans the glassware and puts it away. “I have a detention in half an hour,” he says, his voice gaining that peculiar flatness it develops when he’d prefer not to do something. “You’ve…given me a great deal to think about.”

“I’ll just take my Death in a Bottle, among other things, and be going then,” Nizar says cheerfully. “See you at lunch. Or dinner. One of those.” He Apparates before Severus can reply, appearing in the sitting room of his quarters.

Nizar puts the chest on the table and drops onto the sofa before he puts his hands over his face and groans aloud. He hadn’t quite meant to…take things that far. Or be that viscerally honest. Dear gods, no wonder he’s never been wed. He’s terrible at this!

“Did you have a good morning, Father?” Galiena asks from her portrait.

Nizar shifts around so that he can look up at her. “I kissed your uncle’s Head of House.”

Galiena tilts her head. “Ah. How did that work out, then?”

“Dearest, I have absolutely no idea.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus waits until Nizar is gone before he slumps down in his chair at his desk. He received an answer to the question he’s been wondering about—directly, at that—and he handled it with the sort of suspicion he’d grant to a Death Eater offering him a drink.

He lets his head thump down on his desk. He doesn’t know enough about Nizar to effectively judge the situation, and they both know it. Things also tend to happen around Nizar like a damned boulder rolling down a hill. Godric Gryffindor might have accidentally brought a hat to life, but Nizar seems to cram five hours of activity into five minutes, as if he has to do as much as possible before the chance passes.

Severus lifts his head, frowning. He’s been overlooking something obvious. It isn’t just grief that followed Nizar out of a picture frame, but nearly ten centuries spent in a frozen moment of time while staring out at constantly changing events. He is _literally_ attempting to fill his every waking moment with activity.

The fact that Nizar volunteered to wait for Severus to get his head together is reassuring. Nizar does have some measure of patience, which means he will gradually recover from what Severus thinks might be a very quiet, subconscious terror.

Nizar was also being…kind.

 _Kind, vicious lunatics_ , Nizar said of himself and the Founders. Severus might still harbor doubts about the others, but he believes that of himself, Nizar is being entirely honest.


	13. Cruciatu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Perhaps he’s family. If Tom Riddle can be, why not him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vigdis left me such a tear-jerking, awesome, badass comment that I'm tossing up another chapter before bed.

Unpacking the trunk is far more enlightening than trying to interpret the actions of a man who took the qualities of his brother’s House and elevated them into art. The two bottles of Death in a Bottle—thank you for the name, Godric—go into the storage room in the back. The portraits have to be passing rumors back and forth again; Salazar is waiting to greet him and gives the bottles an absolutely forlorn look.

“Should have had it painted into your portrait,” Nizar teases. Salazar curses him in three different languages before leaving again.

Nizar removes the other bottles, lining them up on the table in the same order they’d been packed in, and discovers they were resting on cloth. He lifts it up, curious, and finds a long length of undyed, wool-blended silk. Beneath that is a leather pouch sitting on a second wooden box, almost the size of the trunk it’s resting in.

The leather pouch is full of Galleons, stamped with their minter’s names with dates that range from 1001 to 1038. Nizar counts out one hundred of them with mournful gratitude. Of course Salazar would not leave him penniless. This will serve nicely until he has the opportunity to discover if his original vault still exists.

Nizar puts the pouch aside, taking it out shallow box to place it on the table. That empties the trunk, so he latches it and puts it on the floor to make room.

He spends the rest of the morning and all of that afternoon reading missives from the sealed bottles, which are so dry and factual that he suspects Salazar was distancing himself with mind magic just to be able to write the words. Births, deaths, illnesses, accomplishments—everything that became of Hogwarts and their family between 1017 and 1039.

Nizar doesn’t want to put the scrolls back into the bottles and seal them away again, so he bands them all together in a single roll, oldest to newest, and stores them in the trunk. The other scroll is still inside, its wax seal like an accusatory green eye. After reading of his family’s history for six hours, he’s not in the mood to tempt any more emotional upset.

Maybe he’s afraid of what it might say.

Nizar thinks about it and decides that yes, he probably is. For all he knows, that scroll is a record of Salazar’s death, left behind by Galiena or one of her children. That is something he is not yet prepared to face, for all that he understands it must have happened.

Nizar returns to the sitting room to explore the remaining box. He lifts the lid and discovers a leather-bound and wax-sealed scroll resting beside three familiar items: a wand of ash, the straight lines and rounded hilt of a Norse dagger, and a silver-tipped raven’s feather quill.

“Oh,” he breathes in shock, feeling like someone just ripped out his heart. “Oh, you idiots. You should not have done such a thing.”

***          *          *          ***

 

Severus refuses to be concerned when Nizar misses both meals on Sunday, and on Monday morning. Minerva is discussing Sana Visio with Filius, Aurora, and Albus, though she pauses long enough to give Severus a curious look. He shakes his head in response; no, he has no idea where their ex-portrait lunatic of a Defence teacher happens to be.

Nizar is present at lunch, though he is far more withdrawn than Severus has witnessed in literal years. With Minerva seated between them in her customary position, he can’t ask questions, but he can wait.

“Are you feeling all right, Nizar?” Minerva asks towards the end of the meal.

“I’m fine. I’m not unwell, I mean. I simply miss those who are gone, Minerva.”

Severus glances in Nizar’s direction, maintaining an impassive expression. His own weekend has been quiet, other than the Carrow twins’ vociferous whinging about unfair detentions—which Severus privately thought was one of the most brilliant punishments the little cretins could have experienced. Then there was Draco’s narrow-eyed, concerned frown as he entrusted a sealed letter to Severus, meant for Narcissa Malfoy _only_ , which makes him wonder if the blunder Severus expected had not been Draco’s, but Lucius’s.

Nizar hasn’t been to any of their traditional evening meetings. Severus wonders what the hell else was in that damned trunk from the cavern lake.

It’s not until Tuesday afternoon, when most other students are in class, that Severus has the opportunity to catch Nizar alone. He’s in the Entrance Hall standing in front of the four portraits of the Founders from 1035.

Nizar is wearing a black, sleeveless knee-length silk vest that looks like it was embroidered in gold thread. Paired with one of his black linen shirts gives it the appearance of a robe, and Nizar the appearance of bloody royalty.

Severus halts in surprise. The hall lighting is throwing Nizar’s profile into stark relief, and it’s so mindful of another that he has no idea what to think, especially as it doesn’t fit with what he knows of Nizar at all.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Nizar is saying as he approaches.

“Yes, we should have,” Godric Gryffindor says bluntly. “It was our decision to make, you know.”

“Those things belonged to you, you idiots,” Nizar responds, scowling.

“Yes, they did, and they served us well.” Rowena Ravenclaw sounds like she is smiling. “We believed the reminder might now serve _you_ well, dearest.”

Nizar closes his eyes. “If by serving me well, you mean being composed of utter heartbreak, then yes.”

“We chose to place those items into Salazar’s keeping, knowing he would be able to grant them to you by your secretive means,” Helga says. “You are family, Nizar. Why would we not gift you things that meant so much to us?”

Nizar presses his fingers to his eyes and draws in a deep breath. “At least Salazar just left a dire amount of alcohol.”

Godric laughs. “That is because he is thoughtful, Nizar.”

Nizar lowers his hands. “Thoughtful, hell. If I’d been so inclined, it would have been a very pleasant way of suiciding!”

That’s not a reassuring statement. “Please do _not_ use Death in a Bottle literally.”

Nizar starts in place before turning to look at him. “No, I won’t, but I thought it a valid point. What?” he asks when Severus says nothing. “You’re looking at me like I’ve done something bewildering.”

Severus shakes his head. “For a moment, with the lighting in the hall…your profile is very similar to Potter’s.”

Nizar gives him a curious look. “Which one?”

“They both shared features, but in this case, definitely the younger,” Severus replies.

“Oh.” Nizar considers it. “Perhaps he’s family,” he murmurs. “If Tom Riddle can be, why not him?”

“That would make Potter and…and Riddle to be distant relations,” Severus says, unnerved by the idea without any clue as to why.

Nizar shrugs. “At this point, the entirety of western Europe’s magical community is probably related, directly or distantly.” He turns away from the portraits after bidding them good afternoon, which is echoed by everyone except Salazar, who responds in Parseltongue. “Severus, where is that village, Hogsmeade? I really could do with differing scenery.”

“If you leave by the main doors behind you and exit the front gates, all you have to do is follow the path,” Severus says. Nizar nods a thank-you and then Disapparates.

Severus debates with himself for a moment before he backtracks and finds an empty classroom. If this fails, he does not want witnesses. Fortunately, when he turns in place, he Apparates.

Unfortunately, he nearly lands on Nizar, who is already on the path beyond the gate. Nizar catches his arm, wide-eyed. “Fuck, Severus!”

Severus recovers his balance and shakes off a hint of dizziness. “That might be my worst bit of Apparition in twenty years,” he gasps.

Nizar laughs and releases Severus’s arm. “And you managed to Apparate within Hogwarts before the full month was up, too. Good job. Am I being stalked to Hogsmeade?”

“I’ve missed your company,” Severus admits, and then clenches his jaw before spewing out any further inconvenient truths.

Nizar lowers his head. “I’ve missed yours, too. I’m sorry. I’ve been…preoccupied.”

“Does it have something to do with what you were discussing with the Founders?” Severus asks once they’ve begun walking to the village.

“It does, yes.” Nizar breathes out a long sigh. “I’ll show you later, if you like. I just needed to get out of the castle. It didn’t help that I found Helena.”

“Helena? A portrait?”

“No.” Nizar swallows. “Rowena’s daughter. I’d forgotten that she died, Severus. I had no idea that she was a ghost within the castle. Everyone calls her the Grey Lady.”

Severus almost stops walking in surprise. “The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower is Helena Ravenclaw?”

Nizar nods. “Yes. Then I heard her story and had to go see Edvard in the dungeons. The bloody damned fool.”

“You knew them both,” Severus realizes. “The Grey Lady and the Bloody Baron.”

“They were both Salazar’s students, but in those days, Severus, I knew _everyone_. Outliving everything and everyone you know is fucking terrible.” Nizar scowls. “Edvard certainly has an apt title.”

“That he does,” Severus agrees, sensing Nizar’s desperate need to change the subject. “But he takes his duties as Slytherin’s ghost very seriously.”

“I’d get rid of him if he didn’t,” Nizar mutters. “Oh, is that the village?”

“It is.” Severus wanders down the main street with Nizar, who is glancing back and forth at houses and shops with unfeigned interest. “Commentary?”

“Please,” Nizar says, smiling. “It’s bound to be absolutely scathing.”

“I’m thrilled that you know me so well,” Severus returns dryly. He then spends a delightful half-hour commenting on the teashop (“Only if you wish to be entombed by pink frill.”) the potions shop (“Sub-par quality.”) the Sprintwitch’s sports shop (“Useful for Quidditch and little else.”) Dervish and Banges (“Be prepared to negotiate on cost, but otherwise useful.”) Dogweed and Deathcap (“Price-gouging bastards; it’s wiser to find a hillside and harvest your own herbs, or send a bloody owl to London.”) the grocer’s (“I buy from them if I need to return home for the summer. They’re more reasonable than anything in Cokeworth.”) and The Three Broomsticks (“The students go there in droves on Hogsmeade weekends, but the alcohol is decent.”).

Nizar goes right into the music shop, which makes Severus cringe before he remembers that there are no students inside to be mistreating musical instruments that don’t deserve it. Inside, Nizar is glancing around at what is on display. “I don’t suppose you have an alboka. An albogue,” he asks the wizard manning the counter.

The bald wizard frowns. “Actually…I think I do. Someone ordered one a few years ago and never came back to get it. Would you like to see it?”

Nizar’s expression brightens. “Yes!”

Severus glances down at him after the wizard disappears into the back. “What the hell is an alboka?”

“An old style of hornpipe. I used to be good at playing it, but it’s been a very, very long time,” Nizar says. “It’s Basque, though even the Egyptians had their own type thousands of years ago.”

“Here it is!” the wizard says, bringing out an instrument built from natural horn, though there are pipes made of dark curved wood with hand grips connecting the smaller horn to the larger. “Scaled to D, I believe.”

Nizar looks it over, taps it with his wand to clean off the dust, and then puts it to his lips. What emerges is immediately mindful of music from Arabic regions. It has clearer notes than Severus recalls from a few sporadic visits to Morocco and the like, but it’s also the most mournful damned sound he’s ever heard in his life.

When Nizar lowers the alboka, Severus realizes that he’s staring at him and searches for something to ask that doesn’t verge on prying. “How do you play continuously like that without stopping to breathe?”

Nizar smiles. “You use inhalations to play it just as much as exhalations. I did better than I thought I would.”

“Please, please buy it,” the shopkeeper begs. “It’s only going to gather dust in the back. For twenty Galleons, it’s yours.”

Nizar frowns. “For twenty Galleons, you’re throwing in whatever that wooden pipe is, there,” he says, pointing at a wooden recorder made from polished rosewood.

The bald wizard narrows his eyes. “I could not possibly. Twenty-five Galleons.”

Nizar puts down the alboka. “Good day, then.”

“Oh—gods take it, wait!” the shopkeeper yells before Nizar can open the door to leave.

Nizar gives the man a look of complete boredom. “Yes?”

“Twenty is fair,” the wizard grates out. “I assume you can pay such a price.”

Nizar pulls a leather pouch from a vest pocket and hands over twenty Galleons. “A box, please?”

Severus is positive the shopkeeper is swearing under his breath as he boxes up both purchases and hands them over. “Have a good day,” he says in a forced tone.

“And you,” Nizar replies with a polite smile.

Once they’re out on the street again, Severus turns to him. “That was brutal negotiating.”

Nizar shrugs. “He’s the one who wanted to get rid of the alboka so badly. In truth, I just wanted to get it away from _him_.”

“Oh?”

Nizar taps the box before he shrinks it and places it in his pocket. “This isn’t a new alboka. It’s at least a century old, if not older. It’s the feel of the wood—someone loved it very much. It’s worth at least forty Galleons if I’m relearning currency values correctly.”

Severus smiles. “I want to take you into Dogweed and Deathcap just to watch you verbally eviscerate them.”

“That would be fun, but not today. I need a bloody cauldron before anything else.”

Severus rolls his eyes. “You do realize I can assist you with that.”

“I didn’t want to presume,” Nizar says, his attention caught by the bookstore.

“Did you eat lunch?” Severus asks before he has to pry the man out of Tomes & Scrolls. He knows Nizar wasn’t at the staff table at noon.

“Oh.” Nizar looks sheepish. “No, I forgot.”

“I thought as much.” Severus debates over The Three Broomsticks before he decides he can’t stand the idea of Rosmerta’s gossiping ways. “It’s simple fare, and the place hasn’t been cleaned in fifty years, but if we go to the Hog’s Head Inn, no one will bother us.”

Nizar gives the building an intrigued look as they approach. “It’s certainly grim.”

“It doesn’t get any better,” Severus says, opening the door and gesturing for Nizar to precede him. Inside, it’s dim and smells of dust, as usual; there are two different clusters of three patrons at the tables closest to the dingy windows.

Severus doesn’t expect Nizar to grin when he catches sight of the barman. “Aberforth!”

Aberforth Dumbledore looks up from his ineffectual cleaning of a glass with a rag that looks like it was used to scrub at the windows. “Well, well. Nizar Slytherin. I suppose those rumors were true, after all.”

“Much to the remorse of many. How are you?” Nizar asks.

Aberforth shrugs. “Getting on. You look good for a portrait.”

Nizar raises an eyebrow. “How are your goats?”

“Oh, enough with the fucking goat jokes,” Aberforth grumbles. “Professor Snape. Odd to see you here.”

“As long as you don’t throw me out, I don’t care,” Severus retorts, and Aberforth smirks at him. Prick.

“Come on. Back here, this way,” Aberforth says, leading them into a back room behind the bar. It’s much brighter and cleaner, with more torches and a fire in the fireplace warming the small space. “Have a seat. I’ll bring you a meal that’s better than what that lot outside will see. CHARLES, YOU INGRATE!” Aberforth yells, making Nizar wince. “Go see to the custom out front. Make sure they don’t make off with anything!”

Aberforth leaves the room and returns with two shepherd’s pies and three bottles of mead. He places them on the table and then sits down on a third chair, prying open the bottle. “Go on, it’s not toxic. I can’t cook to save my own life, but Charlie is decent at it.”

“I’d no bloody _idea_ you were a Slytherin,” Severus says, amused by the fact that Nizar is trying to inhale his food without abandoning table manners completely.

“Yes, well. Living in my brother’s shadow and all, the famous Gryffindor. Can’t let it be known that his own brother was one of those dire Slytherins, eh?” Aberforth shakes his head. “He’s a great pillock, but since he’s fancy with a wand, that’s all anyone ever sees.”

“I’m surprised you’re in the Order, then, feeling as you do about Albus.”

Aberforth gives Severus a sharp look. “I know how _you_ felt about Albus, but that didn’t stop you, either.”

“No, but I didn’t do it for him,” Severus replies.

“Funny, that.” Aberforth gives him a grim smile. “Neither did I. Now as long as we’re talking so plain—do you intend on being part of that mess, Nizar?”

Nizar lowers the bottle of mead in surprise. “I haven’t been asked. I imagine your brother is still trying to figure out if I’m going to turn out to be some sort of vile trap.”

“Of course,” Aberforth mutters. “That’s Albus all over. Light and shining goodness for all, less there’s a serpent involved.”

“I also wasn’t expecting you to be that blatant about a group that is technically supposed to be a secret,” Nizar says.

Aberforth dips his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, but I remember your sharp eyes and ears, Nizar.”

“I’m finding that I’m less than impressed at having been pressured into becoming Slytherin’s Head of House in 1982, knowing that Albus already knew of a Slytherin with far more experience than I,” Severus says, trying not to growl.

Aberforth lets out a bitter laugh. “Me, be a Head of House? My dolt of a brother tells people I can’t even read. He’d never ask me to do something like that. No, I’m much better use in his eyes as an unknown, bearded spy listening in on that lot out front while pretending I’ve no notion of cleanliness.”

Nizar’s expression has turned hard and unforgiving. “I heard a lot of this when you were a child. I’m not pleased to see that he still thinks so little of you.”

“Now don’t get me wrong, Nizar.” Aberforth drains his bottle of mead and puts it on the table. “I think what my brother did with his Order of the Phoenix, working against You-Know-What-Twat, is a good idea. He has a lot of those, and make no mistake. What my brother doesn’t understand is people, though he thinks he does. He’ll do so much that’s exactly right, and then overlook what others find obvious.”

It’s a relief to find someone whose opinion of Albus Dumbledore so closely mirrors Severus’s own. Respect tempered by the harsh light of awareness has taught Severus that Albus is a good ally to have, and will assist others whenever Albus finds there is genuine need…but he also does not quite understand the toll of the task he bound Severus to, or even the reasons why.

Severus looks up from his plate to find Nizar staring at him. “Yes?”

“Severus.” Nizar glances at Severus’s left arm. “Can you not feel that?”

“Feel what—” Severus hisses out a pained breath and drops his fork to grasp his left arm. A Summons, the first one since the Sunday before Hallowe’en. The Dark Mark has otherwise been quiet, though it has burned in simmering reminder of the Dark Lord’s return since the twenty-fourth of June.

“And that would be the twat,” Aberforth says blandly. “Don’t let the bastard kill you. There are a lot of students in that school who need you, Severus Snape.”

Severus nods in acknowledgement, not sure he knows what to say to that. He and Aberforth have never exactly been on genial terms. “Nizar, my apologies.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, but I’m seconding Aberforth: don’t let that bastard kill you.” Nizar sighs. “Shall I come by later tonight?”

Severus forces himself to let go of his arm before he stands up. “I probably won’t be fit company.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been depressed, so we’ll get along fine,” Nizar says, smiling.

Severus can’t think of anything to say in response, so he settles for nodding again before he leaves the inn. He walks around to the grimy alley between the inn and the next building and Apparates the moment he confirms there is no one else to see it.

Scotland has been wrapping itself in the chill of impending winter, but in the south it’s warmer. English humidity does a good job of keeping the frost at bay. Little Hangleton would be picturesque if Severus were not aware of the person living there, and those he is most often surrounded by.

He knew that Voldemort would be a threat to Nizar. That was apparent the moment the portraits explained why they suddenly had a living person instead of an interesting portrait within Hogwarts’ walls. He just isn’t happy about it.

Only the Dark Lord’s inner circles, those in which he places the most trust—or wishes the most control over—are present in the Riddle Manor. They all arrive within five minutes of the initial call, long wary of being late…and what such tardiness can lead to.

“Lucius,” Severus says in an undertone, recognizing the man despite the ridiculous mask. Severus has ever been one of the few not to bother. Voldemort believes it is because Severus was brave enough to reveal his true allegiances to the world. Severus just thinks the metal masks are an utterly ridiculous affectation of complete pretentiousness. “Narcissa.”

“Severus,” Lucius greets him with cool amusement.

Narcissa is far more polite. “Are you aware of what transpires, Severus?”

“I might have an idea,” Severus replies, and then refuses to give them any more hints as the circle closes around the velvet armchair the Dark Lord is seated in. He manages to be terrifying while still lounging in regal repose.

Severus thinks idly about how much he hates this man and then buries everything important to him beneath his shielding as he kneels in time with the others. The greeting arises from multiple throats, male and female, as if in one voice.

“Good morning,” Voldemort says, less a return of that greeting and more an order to rise. “There have been interesting rumors from Hogwarts of late.”

“A pretender, surely,” Avery says at once. “None of the Slytherin line remains but yourself, My Lord.”

“That is also what I thought. Then I met him, just days after his arrival.” Voldemort’s eyes glow red in the dim lighting; Nagini curls up around the chair to rest her head on her master’s bare feet. “Severus? You are there at Hogwarts, and have spent time in their newest Defence teacher’s company. What is your opinion of this?”

 _We’ve gathered to gossip_ , Severus thinks with distant amusement. “The portraits of the Founders claim to all that he is the real thing—Salazar Slytherin’s younger brother by five years. Salazar is rabid on this to the point of threatening Fudge over the matter, reminding the Minister that the word of a Founder’s portrait is still binding in a Ministry courtroom.”

“Interesting,” Voldemort muses, ignoring the displeased muttering that arises.

“Draco has interesting things to say of Nizar Slytherin,” Narcissa says. “He does speak of his skill with no little awe.”

“You are the Head of his brother’s House. Has he confided in you at all?” Voldemort asks Severus.

Severus pretends to give the question a moment’s thought. “Somewhat. Perhaps not as much as would be useful to My Lord.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

Severus glances back down at the floor. “Of course.”

“Did he speak of our encounter?” Voldemort asks. His voice is almost sibilant, as if he is on the verge of Parseltongue.

“Yes. He seemed irritated; I believe he was incensed at a perceived lack of proper manners from My Lord.” Severus waits, refusing to tense up, to see if that sort of honesty is followed by anger.

“Draco says they spend much time together,” Lucius puts in before Voldemort can react.

Severus resists the urge to turn and glare at him. He can’t decide what makes him angrier; that Lucius would sell information so cheaply, or that he lacks awareness of how much those words might put his own child at risk.

“This is true?” Voldemort sounds amused.

“As My Lord says, he is the brother of my House’s Founder. It would be odd if I were to disdain him,” Severus replies, thinking about killing Lucius Malfoy and leaving his body out for carrion.

“He is what he says, isn’t he?” It does not sound like a question.

Severus decides to answer. At this point, it risks nothing. “I believe so, My Lord.”

“Do you know why he wishes me dead, Severus?”

Dammit. “According to the portraits of the Founders, Salazar knew of My Lord’s emergence a millennia beyond his time. He did not like the idea of such competition, and neither did his brother.” There; a truth within a lie.

“Surely he cannot be such to My Lord, no matter his lineage,” Dolohov says.

“He is, at the very least, an irritant,” Voldemort counters. “One I shall have to contemplate how to deal with. Severus, you will keep me informed as to any new information you receive.”

“I will do what I can, but My Lord must remember that a Slytherin is very reticent with his secrets.”

Voldemort smiles in acknowledgement of the jest. “I do recall, yes. I trust you are capable, Severus.” He draws forth his wand. “However, I see no reason why you should not be reminded of the importance of this task.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“How did you know?” Aberforth asks after Severus leaves.

Nizar puts down an empty bottle of mead, which was decent and tastes like the bees were addicted to wild strawberries. “The Dark Mark? It’s based on blood magic. I always know.”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s a lark to be dealing with.”

“No, it isn’t, but he won’t let me get _rid_ of it.” Nizar scowls. “I didn’t realize one of my brother’s House attributes was ‘stubborn to the point of insanity.’”

Aberforth shakes his head. “You know better’n that. You’re just as bad as the rest of us.” He picks up the two empty plates and shoves them into the hands of someone just out of sight on the other side of the room’s doorway. When he comes back, he says, “Surprised you remember me so fondly.”

“Yes, well…before Severus, you were the last person to ask me my name. I don’t forget things like that,” Nizar says.

Aberforth’s stern mask cracks in half. “The first person in a bloody damned _century_?”

Nizar sighs. “Yes. The others who bothered to notice the portrait just called me Professor Slytherin. That’s polite enough, but they still never asked. What are portraits in Hogwarts, anyway?”

“People,” Aberforth says at once, frowning again. “Not that you’d think so, hearing some of those blasted nicknames.”

“I’m conjuring plaques with their names and adding them with permanent sticking charms every time I find unlabeled portraits. People don’t need to be so damned rude.”

Aberforth follows Nizar outside, using the opportunity to pull out, stuff, and light up a long, curved pipe. “How’re you finding the last bit of the twentieth century, then?”

“I’m sure it’ll be a lot nicer once Voldemort is dead.”

“Aye.” Aberforth blows out a long jet of sweet-smelling smoke. “It’s too bad that poor tyke couldn’t make Voldemort stay dead.”

Nizar rolls his eyes. “Grown, fully trained magicians should never have been waiting about for an _infant_ to save them.”

“No, but now they’re wanting the same thing from the lad as a teenager.” Aberforth offers the pipe, but Nizar declines. The scent of it isn’t bad, but given how Severus once described the actual taste, Nizar has no interest whatsoever.

Nizar turns around in a slow circle on the hill, noting Hogwarts’ towers in the distance. “I’ve been here before. A long time ago. It wasn’t called Hogsmeade then.”

“Oh?”

“It was Radharc an Chaisleáin in those days,” Nizar says. “It’s Gaelic—the very unimaginative name of Castleview.”

Aberforth finishes his pipe. “I’ve got custom to go keep an eye on. It was nice seeing you proper, Nizar.”

“And you.” Nizar decides he’s had enough scenery for one day. Thinking of Castleview as it had once been is almost as bad as wandering around Hogwarts. The castle is at least structurally similar, but in Hogsmeade, nothing remains of the original village—or if it does, it’s been completely built over to be unrecognizable.

Nizar walks back to the castle instead of Apparating. The students are just starting to head into the Great Hall for dinner when he returns, which is a surprise; Nizar didn’t think he’d lingered that long in the village.

He catches Minerva’s eye and gains her attention just long enough to tell her that Severus is unavailable for the evening. Her place in Dumbledore’s Order has never been confirmed to him, but as Aberforth said: his ears and eyes work just fine. She nods once, says that she’ll inform Albus, and enters the Hall.

Nizar goes upstairs after explaining to a few curious students why he won’t be at dinner, which causes most of them to wonder if he’s going to expire after eating at the Hog’s Head Inn. He smiles and reminds them that mead and beer exist because water wasn’t safe to drink in his day, and he is less likely to suffer food poisoning than any of their delicate constitutions.

Well, maybe not Fred and George. Nizar thinks any sickness lingering in food or water would probably flee from the twins in mortal terror.

As he enters his quarters, Nizar pauses in the doorway. The first thing he saw was not his own table, window, and the owl’s portrait, but a fire burning in Severus’s fireplace.

“All right. I can take hints.” His students are going to have to live without office hours this evening. He makes certain the classroom door is shut, secures his room, and then Apparates directly down to Severus’s sitting room.

No one is present, but Nizar does call for an elf and asks politely for her to build up the fire. Filky utterly disapproves of his lack of dinner until he explains he ate in the village, but she still insists that he needs a tea tray. Nizar gives in and accepts. He might be stubborn, but Hogwarts’ house-elves make oxen seem biddable.

He has tea while attempting to read a retelling of Homer’s _Odyssey_ written by an Irishman named James Joyce. He decides about three pages into the book that he isn’t that much of a masochist. He wonders if Severus keeps it as a reminder that there are far worse things to try to plow through than most books on magical theory, or if there is some method of understanding Joyce that Nizar isn’t aware of. He exchanges it for the original _Odyssey_ , which he’s only ever heard recited by bards. That is much easier going. Maybe one has to be really drunk to read Joyce.

After seven o’clock, the flames in the fireplace turn bright green, and Nizar puts his book aside. Expectation immediately turns to alarm when Severus takes one step from the fireplace and collapses. Nizar rushes forward, catching him before Severus can strike his head on the stone. “What happened?”

Severus stares up at him, his jaw working for a moment, before he rasps out, “D-drawer.”

Nizar gently lies Severus down on the hearth before he gets up and glances around. Drawer. Writing desk. He yanks open the deep side drawer and lifts out a sheaf of flat parchment. Hidden beneath is a wooden rack holding a dozen different corked and rounded glass phials, all full. He lifts out three before he finds the swirled greens of a restorative and the violet-red hues of a strong painkilling potion. He leaves the drawer hanging open and rushes back, dropping to the floor next to Severus and lifting his head into Nizar’s lap. “Wake up. Please.”

Severus’s eyes open, but Nizar is not reassured, not when Severus can barely focus. He’s having trouble breathing, and his hands seem to be locked into white-knuckled fists. “You reticent little shit,” Nizar says, trying to sound normal. “You didn’t tell me he did this to you.”

That earns him a faint smile just before Severus’s head drops to one side, passing out again before Nizar can even bother with a potion. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Nizar lifts Severus’s arm, jams his first two fingers into the life-point in his wrist. There is barely an echo of his heartbeat to be found.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Nizar snarls. He pulls the knife from his boot and yanks off the sheath so that firelight illuminates the sharp edge. “This is not actually how I planned to spend my evening!”

Nizar grasps Severus’s hand, slicing a line across his palm—deep enough to bleed, not deep enough to sever delicate tendons or bone. He sucks in a breath and does the same to his own palm before clasping Severus’s bleeding hand so that the wounds are aligned. He has no idea what Voldemort did to Severus, but he doesn’t need to know the how. He just has to fucking _fix_ it.

When he finds it, Nizar’s nerves light up like fire. “Oh,” he gasps, and then keeps pulling at the curse and the damage it left behind. “Fucking Cruciatu. You and I are going to have a long talk when you’re capable of it, Severus.” There is so much of it, hours—no, this goes beyond today.

Nizar shakes his wand out of his sleeve and picks it up long enough to cast a binding spell at his elbow. He does not want to swallow the whole of this damage, or he’ll be the one trying to die on this damned floor. That done, he drops his wand in easy reach. “Filky?”

The house-elf returns at once, both hands going over her mouth. “Is the Professor Snape being all right?”

Nizar swallows and clenches his jaw through what must have been a particularly strong curse. He can’t even tell the difference between today’s Cruciatu and everything else; it’s all mixed up together.

“Filky, can you find…burn cream? A paste? I don’t actually know what it’s called here.” The house-elf nods, her ears flapping, before she Disapparates. She returns a few minutes later, but by then his vision is blurring. He can only make out that she’s holding a round-shaped jar.

The only thing Nizar does not touch is the Dark Mark. Saving a life is one thing, but Severus has been particular about his reasons for retaining it.

“I need a favor, Filky.” Nizar feels blood on his tongue and ignores the phantom taste. It isn’t his. “When I’m done, I’m going to have to stick my hand in this fucking fire.”

“The Professor Slytherin should not be doing that!” Filky cries in alarm.

“I’d really…really rather not,” Nizar says. “But I won’t be able to walk. When I yank my hand out of the fire, I would appreciate—appreciate it if you would apply that burn treatment.”

Filky might be dancing on her toes in apprehension, if he’s judging that blurred movement correctly. “Filky will be doing so. Does Professor Slytherin have to be damaging himself?”

Nizar nods. “No choice. I like being alive, and I have to—I have to burn out the curse I’m taking from him.”

Filky comes closer. “Professor Slytherin is talking of the old magics.”

“Yes.” Nizar smiles, unsurprised that the elf knows of them. “I prefer using water to flame, personally.”

When the only curse Nizar can sense still lingering in Severus’s blood is the magic of the Dark Mark, he pries their hands apart. Nizar’s fingers are trying to bend backwards in a reflection of the foul magic he took, but he doesn’t give any of it the chance to take hold. He grits his teeth and shoves his entire hand into the fire.

The shriek Nizar lets out could awaken the dead. He snatches up his wand with his left hand, using it to force out the collected curse damage through the slice on his palm so quickly that the wound tears itself open anew.

Filky grabs his arm and yanks his hand out of the flame. “That being enough!” she declares. “It being gone!”

Nizar slumps back against the stone that borders the side of the fireplace. “Great,” he whispers. “Thanks.” It feels like ice is being slathered onto his hand, but it chases away the pain. He barely remembers to release the binding point at his elbow before he passes out.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Severus awakens to the entirely foreign sensation of fingers sliding through his hair. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, letting feel and sound tell him where he is. There is the nearby heat and crackle of a fire; the stone beneath him is Hogwarts. The feel of the castle’s magic is starting to become familiar, and Nizar assured him that no one would be able to duplicate it.

He remembers Floo Powder and green flame. He knows he stepped into the fireplace at the Riddle Manor when Narcissa helped him through. He has to be within his own quarters.

Severus opens his eyes to find the ceiling in his quarters overhead, which eases some of the alarmed tension in his shoulders. His head is pillowed in Nizar’s lap, which is…not entirely unwelcome, but odd.

He glances up to see that Nizar is leaning against the side of the fireplace, sleeping upright. He follows the line of Nizar’s right arm and finds Nizar’s bandaged hand resting on a pillow.

 _You are touching my hair in your sleep_ , Severus thinks at Nizar, bemused. Then he winces and raises his left arm, finding a smaller wrapping of white bandage encircling his palm. Otherwise, he doesn’t hurt at all, which is baffling.

“What the hell happened?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

“Your heart was failing.” Severus looks up again to see that Nizar hasn’t opened his eyes, even though it seems he was indeed awake. “I’m sorry I didn’t have your consent, but you were a bit too busy dying to grant it.”

Severus frowns. “Surely not,” he says, wondering why he hasn’t tried to move, or insist that Nizar stop petting his hair.

Perhaps he doesn’t actually want Nizar to stop.

“Wouldn’t have done so if it wasn’t an emergency.” Nizar turns his head, opening his eyes to look at his bandaged hand. “That’s going to hurt later.”

Severus feels an uncomfortable pressure in his chest. “What did you do?”

“I told you that blood magic is primarily a healing tool, but you can’t draw out foul magic and then not get rid of it.” Nizar flexes his bandaged fingers and grimaces. “Water is preferable to cleanse yourself of it afterwards, but the Cruciatu was so bad…I couldn’t get up.”

“So you stuffed your hand in the bloody fireplace?” Severus asks in disbelief.

Nizar smiles at him, still running his fingers through Severus’s hair. “Much preferable than trying to eat foul magic. Why do you want me to stop touching your hair?”

Severus glares at him. “Because, it’s…”

“It is _not_ greasy, and believe me, I’d like to hex every person who ever told you otherwise,” Nizar says crossly. “To my fingers, there is no difference between your hair and the silk I’m wearing right now. But if you want me to stop, I will.”

Words stall out on his tongue. He can’t ask for it to stop; he doesn’t know how to ask for it to continue.

Nizar takes his silence as discomfort and removes his hand from Severus’s hair. “You need to…” He tilts his head in the direction of the bedroom. “Bed. You need to sleep.”

Severus tries to ignore intense disappointment blended with a terrible sense of awkwardness. He sits up, waiting for a painful twinge that never comes. “Not yet. First I need to remove hours of grime from being in that damned rotting manor.”

“I wasn’t just imagining the mold, then,” Nizar says when Severus gets to his feet.

“Unfortunately not.” Severus looks down to see that Nizar has already closed his eyes again. “You should get up from the fireplace, at least.”

Nizar shakes his head. “I’m not going to be moving anytime tonight. I’d fall on my face if I tried.”

Severus hesitates before making a decision, if only because he’s still waiting for pain that won’t make itself known. “No, you’re not,” he declares, bending down to scoop Nizar off of the floor before Nizar can realize his intent. Nizar doesn’t protest; he looks too confused to form words until Severus dumps the man onto the far side of his own bed. “There.”

Nizar blinks a few times. “Okay?” he manages.

Severus snorts in wry amusement before he goes to take a bath. The heat helps him finish relaxing, as does the mint oil he adds to the steaming water to clear the damned mold from his sinuses.

He dries his hair and dresses for sleep. Then he pauses, scowling, before the mirror in the bathroom. He rubs the sleeve of his silk shirt between his fingers, and then does the same to a strand of his hair.

Fine. Even he is capable of admitting that the texture is not dissimilar.

He should inform Albus of the evening’s events, but a removal of pain did not include a removal of exhaustion. He’ll do so in the morning.

When Severus goes back into his bedroom, Nizar is lying on his side, his bandaged hand resting in careful, flat stillness on the quilt. He thinks about trying to stir the man and realizes he’d prefer not to. He gets an extra blanket from the wardrobe and crawls into bed, intent on doing nothing more than falling asleep. He doesn’t bother extinguishing the wall sconces; he isn’t fond of utter darkness after seeing the Dark Lord. Especially not the Dark Lord in a damned temper.

He’s temporarily distracted from that plan when Nizar says, “It smells like someone choked a mint plant to death.”

Severus starts laughing before he can stop himself. He rolls over onto his side to look at Nizar. “You smell of lavender all the time.”

“Keeps the moths out,” Nizar replies. “Why’d you choke a mint plant to death, Severus?”

“I’m allergic to mold, and the potion that combats it doesn’t help,” Severus explains. “Mint is more effective.”

Nizar smiles. “Then it must be such fun hanging about with a moldering corpse who won’t lie down and remember that he’s supposed to be dead.”

“Fun is not the word I would use.”

Nizar is sobered by the reminder. “No, I imagine not. He’s angry with me, and took it out on you so that I would be aware of it.”

Severus opens his mouth to deny it and then realizes that yes, that was exactly what the Dark Lord intended. “He must have hoped you’d be angry enough to seek him out.”

“Oh, he’s correct about that. I’m really fucking angry,” Nizar says. “However, I’m also not that fucking stupid.”

Severus raises his left hand, where the Dittany-healed line is visible across his palm. “What did you do? The specifics, I mean.”

Nizar’s eyes flicker over to that hint of the healing wound. “Blood magic that’s meant to draw forth what doesn’t belong means I need access to your blood. Well, not every time—it depends on the magic involved, and what’s required to fix it. In this case, it was blood to blood, and before you voice a concern, I assure you I’m not diseased.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about that.” Severus frowns. “And then what? I’ve never gone through an extended bout of the Cruciatus Curse and not spent days in agony afterwards.”

“That’s because Cruciatu lingers for years if it isn’t removed. Just because the casting ends doesn’t mean the curse dies with it,” Nizar says. “I drew out that curse, and quite a few others with it.”

Severus feels himself blanch even as he hates the reaction. “I had no idea those curses remained. I don’t think anyone of our time does. How many would it have been?”

“Every single one you’ve ever been subjected to that wouldn’t have been cleared up by mind magic.” Nizar sighs. “I wouldn’t have gone that far, but they were all tangled up together. I couldn’t simply undo part of it without taking all of it.”

Severus stares at him. “You took—you removed nineteen years of curse damage?”

“And that would be why it was necessary to shove my hand into your fireplace.” Nizar looks at his hand and makes a face. “Since I’m dealing with a reticent Slytherin, I’d no idea it was that bad.”

He isn’t sure what he should say to that. The sarcastic statement about insane egotistical bastards and torture going hand-in-hand doesn’t seem…right. “I didn’t wish to overly concern you.”

Nizar shakes his head. “I was concerned, regardless.”

“I suppose you’re going to be after me even more now than you were in regards to removing the Dark Mark?”

“No.” Nizar gives him a curious look. “You gave me your reasons, and they’re sensible. I can go,” he offers.

“What? Why?” Severus asks, feeling another odd, painful jolt in his chest.

“Because I’m making you nervous.”

 _Oh._ “No, that isn’t…you.” Severus refuses to feel uncomfortable about that along with everything else. “The last time I shared a bed with anyone, no matter how innocent the purpose, was in 1981.”

Nizar lifts his bandaged hand and carefully resettles it. “I think…1004.”

“Thirteen years before the portrait?” Severus asks in surprise. He would have thought—well, of the two of them, Severus is not the slightest bit attractive.

Nizar glares at him. “I know what you were just thinking, and I’d hit you for it, but it would hurt.”

“Then I’m grateful you shoved your hand into a fire,” Severus replies in a dry voice. “How are you so certain you know what I’m thinking?” He knows it isn’t Legilimency; his shields won’t falter during torture, much less because he took a damned bath.

“Because I’ve known you for a long time,” Nizar reminds him.

That makes sense, even if it’s vaguely irritating sense. “But thirteen years, not counting the portrait?”

“I could say the same of your fifteen years,” Nizar points out.

“You could, but I absolutely _loathe_ people and thus have a valid excuse.”

“Of course you do.” Nizar glares at his hand and resettles it on the quilt again. “Itchy,” he mutters. “I was never married, Severus. I raised three children on my own. The few people I did spend that sort of time with were friends. Peregrine was the last of those friends who hadn’t gotten himself married off. You might have liked him, or you may have wanted to strangle him. Peregrine was worse than Salazar for experimenting with potions, but he wasn’t as careful as he should have been. He died in 1004—terrible, avoidable accident. I cursed his name as they lowered him into the ground.”

Severus does indeed want to strangle someone long dead, if only because they seem to have set the tone for loss in Nizar’s life. “I refuse to die due to an avoidable accident.” He hesitates before asking, “1004?”

“I was doing a very bad job of pointing out that I’m just as nervous, else I’d actually be sleeping right now,” Nizar says.

Severus nods and then kicks part of the blanket over to cover Nizar’s legs. “Go to sleep.”

Nizar grins. “Ah, wisdom.”

“Fuck you; go to sleep.” Severus rolls over to retrieve his wand from the bedside table, quenching two of the four sconces. By the time he’s replaced his wand and laid back down, Nizar is asleep.

Severus watches him for a few minutes, amused that two silent signals and one blatant, belligerent order were enough. He’ll have to remember that.

Of course, then he realizes the implications of that thought and spends the next hour not sleeping at all. Goddammit.


	14. The Founder's Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see the Gryffindor-Weasley gossip chain is not a mere rumor, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday in the U.S. is a holiday, so I've basically decided I'm ending Part I on that day. Then I get to take a little break and panic about other things before posting Part II.

Severus wakes up the next morning to a note on his pillow from Nizar. He picks it up, curious, and finds an apology for early rising, along with the threat that a house-elf would rouse him if he slept beyond seven o’clock.

He glances at the clock on the wall and finds that it’s six-fifty. His internal sense of time functions just fine, thank you.

Severus joins the staff at the table for breakfast at seven-thirty. Minerva is scowling her displeasure at the early hour; Nizar looks like he’s about to fall asleep in his teacup. The bandage on his hand is gone; his skin looks to be entirely healed, which is a relief.

“Try the coffee,” Severus suggests, sitting down and reaching for toast. He doesn’t eat much of a morning, but if he eats nothing, he’s in a foul temper by lunch. Given that this is only a problem during the school term, Severus blames his students.

“I am not drinking liquid compost,” Nizar mutters. Sinistra hears him anyway, and looks insulted on behalf of her favorite beverage. “Who are you coping with at eight?”

“Third-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs,” Severus answers. “Fifth-years for you?”

“Bloody fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. That batch makes me consider the merits of attaching them to the ceiling with permanent sticking charms.”

Minerva smiles after lowering her teacup. “I’ve first-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws for Transfiguration. I’m not sure who is going to have the more interesting morning.”

“Boggarts,” Nizar says, glaring at the sausage in his plate like it’s offensive. “One of my seventh-years is terrified of Dementors. I’ve been borrowing them for an hour for each of my Doubles for fifth, sixth, and seventh-years. Excellent means of ensuring they’ve mastered the Patronus charm without risking anyone dying.”

“No, just minor psychological trauma,” Aurora says dryly.

“Pfft. Better that than dead,” Nizar replies. “Excuse me. I’m going to go dunk my head in the Black Lake so I’ll be awake enough to cope with their minor psychological trauma.”

“Rough night?” Aurora asks Severus in a too-innocent voice.

Severus narrows his eyes. “And you’re asking me this…why, exactly?”

“Oh, no reason,” Aurora says, and returns her attention to the _Daily Prophet_.

Minerva hands over her copy of the paper when she’s done with it. “I thought you’d like to know that they’re at it again.”

Severus glances over the front page, feeling his lip curl in disgust. “I see Fudge still hasn’t learned subtlety.” Once again, the reporters who are blatantly in Fudge’s pocket are doing their best to destroy Albus’s credibility, accompanied by another string of nonsense meant to make Potter appear as an attention-seeking, raving lunatic. It almost makes Severus feel guilt for when he’d accused Potter of the same, but at least his vitriolic opinions had served a bloody purpose.

“It’s disgraceful, is what it is,” Minerva utters under her breath, her brows drawing together until they meet in an angry line. “Mister Potter is _missing_ , and still this continues!”

Severus gives her the paper back, frowning. He has confirmation that Potter lives, but nothing more than that. Perhaps he should attempt to seek out this Underground again. Nizar has voiced interest in seeing things other than Hogwarts. He might like to accompany Severus to London, though it would need to be a well-timed trip.

The rest of his day goes well. The younger students are easily cowed into listening, and his seventh-year N.E.W.T. students are there to learn how to brew. He pays careful attention to Fred and George Weasley through every class. Half of the time they ignore the listed assignment and experiment on their own concoctions, but as they take precautions, he ignores it. The Weasley twins don’t care if they fail a daily assignment so long as they learn how to brew something new, and he likes that attitude, even if he can’t tell them so.

Severus tells Albus about the previous evening he’d spent in Little Hangleton. Albus seems unsurprised that Voldemort is focusing on a new threat when his original concern is unavailable. “His inability to find Harry would be seen as a weakness. If he can’t counter a second threat properly, then he risks losing strength,” Albus says.

“And will likely plan in a precise and careful manner so as to not fail at it,” Severus replies before taking his leave of the Headmaster’s office. He knows this; he can’t stop bloody well thinking about it. When the Dark Lord chooses to act against Nizar, there are going to be fatalities, and he doesn’t know whose side will suffer the losses.

Wednesday at eight o’clock, Nizar sends a note of apology via house-elf to cancel their evening plans. He’s still recovering from last night, and writes that he fell asleep in his office no less than three times during the day.

Thursday is a full day for them both; Severus sees Nizar at breakfast, but not lunch and dinner. That isn’t necessarily unusual, as Nizar has the habit of picking up a book and forgetting to eat until a frantic house-elf arrives to shove a dinner tray under his nose.

On Friday morning, Nizar still isn’t at breakfast, which gives Severus the first stir of concern. He has the entire morning free and resolves to go drag a Slytherin out of his office, but the Weasley twins beat him to it.

“Can we have a moment, sir? In private, like?” George asks when they catch him crossing the Entrance Hall

Severus glances at them both before jerking his head in the direction of the staff lounge. No one tends to use it until at least nine in the morning, and the students are largely too terrified to enter the room. “What is it?”

“It’s about Professor Slytherin, Professor Snape,” Fred says.

George nods. “See, we like him, and something happened yesterday that we thought you might could assist with.”

Severus crosses his arms. “And what makes you think I can assist, or would actually want to?”

Fred smiles. “Well, Professor, we might not be active in the Order yet, since Mum would kill us both—”

“—but we know whose loyalty goes where, and that includes you, sir,” George says.

“We know Professor Slytherin isn’t formally in the Order, but everyone paying attention to that man knows how he feels about You-Know-Who—”

“—and that feeling revolves around making You-Know-Who into Him-Being-Dead.”

Severus frowns. “And this involves me…how?” he asks, choosing to ignore the other statements. If they’re smart enough to discern loyalties from a few random comments, then they’re intelligent enough to know why he won’t acknowledge it. They both take after their father, who deliberately set himself up to be misjudged and considered a buffoon, even by his own family. Arthur Weasley understands the value of being underestimated.

“Well, Professor Slytherin’s doing boggarts this week, which you probably know,” George says.

“Patronus Charms for fifth and up, but standard _Riddikulus_ Charms for first through fourth.” Fred rolls his eyes. “Should have just been first through third, but the Death Eater instructor didn’t cover boggarts for third-years like he should’ve.”

“Can’t imagine why,” George drawls. “But it means our sister went up against a boggart, Professor.”

Severus lifts his chin. “I see. The diary shade?”

George grimaces. “Tom Riddle, in living color. Ginny wasn’t expecting it.”

“It was a cock-up,” Fred says flatly. “So, Professor Slytherin steps up to get rid of the boggart and help Ginny, except then the boggart started paying attention to him…”

“So it became you.” George’s face has lost all traces of humor. “And I don’t mean like the infamous Neville incident, sir.”

 _Of course not_ , Severus thinks sourly. “Then what was it?”

“Well, we weren’t there,” Fred says. “But Ginny, she says boggart-you turned your back on him, and not in any nice fashion.”

Severus feels the weight of dread settle onto his shoulders. “And?”

“He didn’t use the _Riddikulus_ Charm. Ginny says the Professor did some odd movement with his wand, real sharp-like, and she didn’t recognize the word,” George explains.

“But she says it sure flung that boggart right back into the cabinet like its tail was on fire,” Fred adds.

Severus nods. “I see. Is Miss Weasley all right?”

“Oh, she’s right spare about it,” George says. “She’s mad that she let the creepy bastard get to her.”

“She felt better after Lovely Luna had a turn, though.” Fred grins. “Now there was a moment for wizarding posterity.”

“What fanciful creature did the boggart become?” Severus asks.

“Become?” George snickers. “Lovely Luna _really_ isn’t fazed by anything, Professor. The boggart was terrified of her. Nobody had to do a thing for it to fly right back into its cabinet and hide.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “I truly want to see that demonstrated later. Go away, imbeciles.”

George slings his arm over Fred’s shoulders, neither of them offended by his brusque dismissal. “Come on, then. We’ve got to go terrify young-old Flitwick at nine.”

Severus waits until they’re gone before he murmurs, “Five points to Gryffindor,” under his breath. It will be a cold day in hell before he’ll ever admit to anyone of that House that he’s given them points.

Upstairs, the classroom door isn’t visible. Severus rolls his eyes, checks the corridor, and then Apparates into the Defence classroom. The office door is closed, the iron _S_ flipped into position for Nizar’s quarters.

“Come in,” Nizar’s hoarse voice answers his knock. Severus hopes that’s enough to constitute permission before he grasps the door handle—nothing happens, thankfully—and enters the room.

Severus finds Nizar right away. He’s lying flat on his back on the sofa, wearing a black-and-gold-banded white silk outfit that wouldn’t look out of place on a t‘ai-chi ch‘üan practitioner. His feet are bare, and a damp tea towel rests over his head.

“What the hell happened to you?” Severus asks.

Nizar lifts the edge of the towel to glare at him. “Good morning to you, then,” he grumbles, and drops the towel back over his face.

“Good morning; what the hell is wrong with you?”

Nizar seems to give up, sliding the towel back until it’s only resting over his forehead. There are dark circles under his eyes. “I’m sick, you idiot. Stop being ill-mannered and sit down.”

Taken aback, Severus selects the green armchair and settles into it. “I don’t remember there being a fireplace in this room,” he says, looking at the stone hearth and lit fire that now take up the wall adjacent to the window. The flames cast odd shadows over the painting of the owl—currently empty of its occupant—and the fog-ridden painting of a field opposite the owl’s portrait. The painting is supposed to be of a bright and clear day, but it seems to like mimicking the weather outside.

“There used to be one, but I’d forgotten it. I thought it was warm enough in here, honestly. Then the elves discovered that I was ill, went into a panic, and put the fireplace back in a terror that I’d expire without extra heat.” Nizar sighs. “What’s wrong? Did I miss something important? I know I hallucinated my way through afternoon classes yesterday, but no one seemed to notice.”

“No.” Severus forces himself to relax. “I was concerned. The Weasley twin horrors reported on Thursday morning’s boggart lessons.”

Nizar lifts his head, baffled, and then groans and lays back down. “I see the Gryffindor-Weasley gossip chain is not a mere rumor, after all.”

“Not in the slightest. Never underestimate that batch of gingers.” Severus hesitates before asking, “Are you all right?”

“Fuck. Boggarts,” Nizar says flatly. “I’m fine—well, no, I’m probably just shy of hallucinating again, but that’s nothing to do with boggarts.”

“Modern pathogens,” Severus says, and Nizar nods. “The Weasleys also happened to mention the boggart’s nature.”

“I wasn’t expecting it,” Nizar admits after a moment. “I expected practically everything else, and I have a lot of material a boggart could choose from. Fuck boggarts.”

“I’d like to think you would know that I would do no such thing.”

Nizar turns his head and regards Severus in thoughtful silence. Then he says, “You left.”

Severus refuses to flinch; he has too much practice at not responding to the unexpected. “In 1977.”

“All students leave. The only thing any teacher can do, whether they’re canvas or a living being, can guide and hope that a student chooses to make wise decisions. It’s not up to us to make your choices for you; fuck, it really shouldn’t be.” Nizar takes a breath. “But you weren’t my student. You were my friend. When you left on the ninth of January that year, I was certain I’d never see you again. Either the war would destroy you, or like most graduates of this school, you simply wouldn’t come back.”

He has no idea what to say in response, so Severus says nothing. Either Nizar is running a high fever and not guarding his words, or Severus (and a boggart) stumbled onto the correct question Severus had yet to ask.

“When you left, I didn’t return to the public side of my portrait for nearly a year,” Nizar says. “There were first-years who arrived that September who refused to believe it when the older students told them there was actually a person in that painting. That boggart wasn’t a literal fear, Severus. It was symbolic.”

“You’re concerned that one of my meetings with the Dark Lord will be fatal.”

“Mm. I can’t imagine why such a thing would have been on my mind recently,” Nizar responds, his tone dripping sarcasm.

Severus clenches his jaw. He doesn’t like being reminded of how close he came to death. If he is going to die while spying and trying to uphold his vow, he’d like it to be for a better reason than the Dark Lord’s entertainment.

“Where did you get that outfit?” he decides to ask.

Nizar doesn’t hold Severus’s avoidance of the subject against him. He lifts his arm, which cases the loose sleeve to slide back almost to his elbow, revealing a dusting of brown hair on his forearm. “These were a gift from the Imperial Court in China. Well—less a gift and more a polite way of saying they thought we dressed like barbarians but were too high-ranked to ignore, so they offered to dress us properly. This is only the bottom layer; I like sleeping in them.”

“Imperial China,” Severus repeats. Nizar had mentioned traveling to the east, but he hadn’t expected royal interaction. “I’m surprised you seemed so boggled by tea, then.”

“I didn’t remember tea yet. That’s a recent recollection.” Nizar refolds the tea towel before resting it over his forehead again. “And yes, Imperial China. Specifically, the Royal Court of His Majesty, Emperor Zhao Heng, Zhenzong of Song, who dwelt in the Imperial capital of Keifeng, followed by so many honorifics I’ve forgotten them all. Conversations in that man’s Court took a while.”

“Why were you visiting a royal court?”

Nizar glances at him in surprise. “Because Salazar was a Marqués of León, Severus. It would have been a great insult for us _not_ to pay tribute at a foreign court if it were discovered we’d been there and refused to announce our presence. And…I’ve never mentioned that to you, have I?”

Severus glares at him. “No. No, you did not.”

“Sorry.” Nizar smiles. “I don’t really consider it that important.”

“You’re bloody nobility.”

Nizar pulls the tea towel down so it covers his face. “Salazar was eldest!”

“You’re the younger sibling of a Marquess!” Severus smirks when Nizar swears at him. “That means you still hold a title. The Lord Nizar—”

“I will _kill you_ if you finish that sentence!” Nizar yells through the towel. “Please, please stop.”

“I’ll stop mocking you once you’ve shown me what was in that underwater trunk that bothered you so much.”

“Fine!” Nizar sits up, throws the tea towel onto the sofa, and stands so quickly that he nearly topples over onto his face.

Severus pushes himself out of his chair and catches Nizar by both shoulders. He can feel heat burn through the silk to warm his hands. “Not at risk of you hurting yourself.”

“Then be more fucking specific,” Nizar retorts, blinking a few times while attempting to focus. His hair is a damp, frazzled mess, his cheeks flushed from fever, and he’s wobbling on his feet.

“Look at you,” Severus says, amused. “You’re a disaster.” Then, for reasons he’ll never be able to articulate, he lowers his head and kisses Nizar.

Nizar looks entertainingly boggled when he pulls back. “If that’s the result, then I pledge to continually be a disaster.”

“Please don’t. I have continuous disasters; they’re called students,” Severus replies, pushing on Nizar’s shoulders until he sits down on the sofa again. “And I preface by saying that I’m not retreating, but I do have work I need to catch up on. Shall I irritate you again at lunch?”

“Yes, please. However, if you even so much as hint to anyone in this school that I have a title beyond that of ‘Professor,’ no one will ever find your remains,” Nizar promises, giving him a cheerful smile. Severus suspects that Nizar only means about one-quarter of that threat, but decides it’s wiser to be cautious. One-quarter of a threat is still four-quarters dead.

It isn’t much of a surprise to return by Apparition at the beginning of the lunch hour and discover that Nizar is deeply asleep, oblivious to his presence. Severus lets himself out of the room and goes to eat with the rest of staff in the Great Hall.

“And where is our other Slytherin today?” Minerva asks him the moment he’s seated. “He hasn’t joined us since Thursday morning.”

“Ill,” Severus answers in a curt voice, trying to encourage a complete lack of conversation. In forty minutes he’ll have to deal with fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins trying to immolate each other in a Potions classroom. He doesn’t want to use up his limited store of patience before class begins. His only consolation is that the impending academic hell will be followed by his seventh-year N.E.W.T. students putting in their Double, his last class of the week.

“Ill?” Poppy peers down the table at him. “Modern germ exposure, I take it?”

“Most likely. I didn’t quiz the man; I just made certain he wasn’t dead.”

“I doubt that’s all you did,” Pomona says in a low voice, smiling.

Minerva gives Severus a warning glare, which he ignores. “Pomona Sprout. Don’t.”

Pomona ignores his warning, much the same way he’s still ignoring Minerva. “It’s just a bit of fun, Severus. No harm meant by it.”

“I had the definition of ‘harmless bit of fun’ ground into my face during childhood,” Severus retorts. “I do not welcome it here. Bear in mind that I could say four words to you, and you would leave this table in tears. Leave me out of your foolishness.”

Pomona looks startled. Then she lets out a seething breath before turning back to converse with Charity and Septima.

“You won’t be making any allies that way,” Minerva observes.

“She always forgets how I respond to her definition of gossip. That is not my problem.”

Minerva drags a bit of bread through the gravy in her plate. “Perhaps we just wish to see you happy.”

“No, _you_ might wish that. God knows why.” Severus tries not to roll his eyes. “She, however, just wants scintillating gossip.” House of a Viking, indeed. He very much wants to believe Nizar’s word that Helga Hugðilepuf was not a dunderhead.

Severus grits his teeth throughout two hours of watching the Slytherins and Gryffindors from Potter’s year. He dislikes Potter’s continued absence, but he’d once thought that it might curtail some of the violence in his classroom. He’d thought wrong; Potter just seems to have given both Houses of his year a convenient excuse.

He tried to keep to his original habits in dealing with them, feeling more than ever that he had to appear utterly loyal to Slytherin—which in too many Slytherin minds is synonymous with loyalty to the Dark Lord. The first time he’d rounded on Granger after Nott and Goyle started an altercation, snapping out points deductions from Granger on Gryffindor’s behalf, she hadn’t argued or fumed. She’d burst into tears and left the classroom.

Lesson learned: Potter’s friends are a lot more emotionally compromised when consumed with worry. Minerva nearly flayed him alive until Severus explained that he’d done nothing different, but that he would…curtail the full strength of his ire in certain circumstances from then on.

That concession means that Severus spends a lot more of a Double Potions class glaring daggers at his Slytherins, all but daring them to misbehave while he’s watching. He won’t take points, not when the other teachers do more than enough damage to Slytherin House’s gem counters, but he can and will make them regret the error.

Just as the class ends, Severus points at Longbottom. “You. Stay after class. The rest of you—out!”

Longbottom turns a sickly, blotchy pale, but packs up his belongings without managing to look like a young man being led to the gallows. Nizar’s Defence classes really do seem to be helping the young man develop some sort of bloody spine, and Longbottom doesn’t seem to mind that the spine is being provided by a literal Slytherin. Interesting.

“Wh-what is it, sir?” Longbottom asks once Severus closes the classroom door behind a few lingering Gryffindors. He isn’t going to kill Longbottom. Not in front of witnesses, at least.

“I need to speak to you on the nature of your brewing.”

Longbottom lowers his head. “Y-yes, sir. I know they’re r-rubbish, sir—”

Severus glares at Longbottom. “Be silent. Do let me finish speaking before you make assumptions.”

Longbottom swallows and nods. “N-no, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

“Regarding your melted cauldrons, Mister Longbottom: I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve realized that there is a singular element at play every time you’ve created one of your bird-brained disasters. Can you tell me what that element is?”

Longbottom looks perplexed. “Er—that I’m really bad at Potions, sir?”

“Aside from that,” Severus says in a flat voice. “That part is beyond obvious.”

“I-I don’t know what it c-could be, sir,” Longbottom whispers after a long minute of dithering.

“Plants, Mister Longbottom,” Severus informs him in a cold voice. “Every time you’ve melted a cauldron in my classroom, the primary ingredients in the potion—the primary strength of that potion’s magic—has been based upon plants. Do I need to hold your hand to explain why that is?”

“Maybe partly, sir,” Longbottom says in wide-eyed confusion. “I mean, I’m good with plants. My Gran hates it, but it’s about the only thing in Hogwarts I’m not pants at, sir.”

“Thank you for not being completely hopeless.” Severus pulls out a scroll and holds it out. “Well? Take it!” he orders when Longbottom hesitates.

“Sorry, sir!” Longbottom squeaks, all but snatching the scroll from his hands. “What is it, sir?”

“Paper,” Severus replies with grating dryness, and Longbottom flushes crimson. “Written on that scroll is the name of every potion you’ve brewed in this classroom that has resulted in a melted cauldron. Yes, I do keep detailed records,” he says in response to the blank expression on Longbottom’s face. “I wisely assume that no one else does. You will spend the weekend reviewing this scroll, researching the nature of the plants involved. When you return to class on Tuesday morning, you will inform me of your brand new hypothesis as to what you and these plants are doing that causes your inept failures at potion-brewing.”

“Four-and-a-half years of brewing, sir?” Longbottom is squeaking again. “That could t-take a while!”

“Well, then it’s a fine thing that your weekend has begun, isn’t it?” Severus returns, and gestures to the door. “A hypothesis on paper with evidence to support it. I don’t expect you to figure out the whole of your problem in four days, but you _will_ begin that task.”

“But I still have to write your essay!” Longbottom utters, starting to look pasty-skinned again.

Severus lifts an eyebrow. “Then perhaps you’d best begin immediately. Out!” he barks, when Longbottom does nothing more than stare at him. Longbottom scrambles to obey and nearly takes out an entire workbench in his hurry to flee the room.

 _That was fun,_ Severus thinks in grim amusement. Then he waits for his N.E.W.T. students to creep in through the door that Longbottom left open when he departed.

He begins packing up materials on his desk at the end of class, turns around, and glares at the seventh-years still lingering in his classroom: the Weasley twins, Miss Applebee, Miss Fairbourne, Fleet, Gupta, Miss Johnson, and Miss Parangyo. “Have you all gone deaf?” he asks, realizing that every single one of them are also in Nizar’s N.E.W.T. Defence classes.

“No, sir,” Miss Parangyo says quietly. “It’s just—we all wanted to know if Professor Slytherin was all right.”

 _Gryffindor-Weasley gossip chain_. “He isn’t dead.”

“You can be alive and still be miserable, Professor,” Miss Johnson says. “Is there anything we can do for him?”

For the first time in his life, Severus is truly tempted to toss a Slytherin student under a train car. It takes more restraint than he is comfortable with to _not_ ask them to get rid of the Carrow twins. This group is skilled, intelligent, stubborn, and loyal; they probably would, but the twins are young enough that there is still a chance they may choose not to be despicable. If he can learn it—somewhat—then so can Hestia and Flora.

Severus glances at Fred and George. “The man is ill, not sulking. I’d honestly be more concerned about the boggart that met Miss Lovegood. I’m given to understand that it still won’t come out of that cabinet.”

“Too right,” George says, catching on immediately. “Let’s go see if the boggart needs tea.”

Fleet glares at Weasley. “Let’s go see if your head needs to be examined.”

“All of you just get out of my classroom!” Severus shouts. “I will charge you rent if you linger a moment longer!”

Severus leaves his things in his office, pockets a stone he keeps hidden in a drawer, and locks the door. The castle’s magic isn’t quite adept at letting him know if a Slytherin needs him yet, but the stone will tell him if a student comes to his office searching for him. That done, he Apparates straight to the seventh-floor Defence classroom. A knock on the door gets a prompt response, one that sounds far less like someone trying to gargle bits of glass.

Nizar is sitting up on his sofa this time, reading. His hair is still damp from what must have been a bath, given that he’s wearing a different version of the silk shirt and trousers. “There you are. What happened to lunch?”

“You were unconscious,” Severus replies dryly, shrugging out of his robe and wishing he’d left it downstairs. “You have yet another set of those?”

Nizar glances down at the white silk, which has a simpler green band at the cuffs. “Well, yes. Bottom layer, Severus. This is the part you would hope absorbed all the sweat of a day, which meant the layers over it were still clean to wear the next. We didn’t exactly take the elves with us when traveling.”

Severus frowns. “I’m having the much-delayed realization that I’m bloody spoiled. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Same purpose of a man’s linen shirt a thousand years ago. Those will take repeated washings with a lot more forgiveness than silk.” Nizar closes the book and puts it aside on the same table where Kanza’s heated stone rests. The basilisk is awake and looking at Severus, giving the slow blink of a content reptile. Severus makes for the armchair until he realizes Nizar is glaring at him, changes course, and sits down on the sofa instead.

Social niceties. He is terrible at those. It always sounds so awkward. “I’m…glad to see that you’re feeling better.”

Nizar seems bemused. “You missed the part where the elves were trying to cram potions from the infirmary down my throat every time I lifted my head. Speaking of…” Nizar reaches into the loose sleeve of the shirt, which reveals a leather wrapping around his arm meant to hold his wand in place. “I do believe I agreed to something earlier. Convocar la caja de los fundadores.”

Severus hears the scrape of movement before a wooden box floats serenely into the sitting room. It’s long and wide, though it has a depth of perhaps two inches. He takes it from the air when it hovers in front of him.

Nizar puts his wand away. “Go ahead. Open it. Nothing inside will bite—not even the box.”

Severus gives him a suspicious look before lifting the lid, setting it aside. In the box is a bound scroll with Hogwarts’ broken wax seal; a pale ash wand, its handle carved to resemble a bird’s wing; a graceful black quill made from a raven’s primary tipped in silver; a dagger in a leather sheath with a matching wooden, round handle wrapped in strands of leather. “And these things are?” he asks, picking up the ash wand. The wood has far more red in its striations than he’s used to seeing.

“That one is Godric’s wand,” Nizar answers, and Severus almost drops it. “It’s not a hot coal.”

“It might as well be!” Severus retorts, placing it back into the box. “Then these are…”

“They belonged to the Founders, yes.” Nizar indicates the blade. “Helga’s favorite dagger. It was the first time her father brought home a gift from his raiding and presented something to Helga instead of only giving the spoils of his travels to her mother. The golden cup in her painting was his second gift to her. When she fled the Orkney Earldom, those are the two things that came with her aside from her wand—well, that and enough gold to choke a dragon. Her brother spent several years declaring her a thief before he wisely changed his mind and declared that the gold was granted in payment for her ceding the Earldom to him. Prick.”

“And I assume he changed his mind at wand point.”

Nizar nods. “She would have been within her rights to kill him, but since she didn’t want the Earldom, it would have meant a power vacuum and chaos in the north. Too many people in the region would have tried to claim it with bloodshed, ones who were far more annoying than Sigurd.”

“And the quill?” It might be childish not to wish to pick up these items, but so be it. Severus is _used_ to Nizar, who he is and what he represents. The Founders are still long-dead legends.

“One of Bertram’s feathers.” Nizar reaches into the box and picks it up. “That’s goblin silver on the tip, creating a permanent ink nub. It was a gift, and you know what goblins think of gifting anything.”

Severus glances at Nizar. “That they don’t. What did she do for them?”

Nizar holds the raven’s quill in his hand, as if poised to write something. “Rowena would never say, which means it must have been significant. Speaking of which, you can’t mention that to anyone,” he says, placing the quill in the box. “I don’t want either of us to wake up dead because the goblin clans caught wind of one of us possessing a goblin gift that they gave to someone else. Technically, she has legally gifted it to me, but they’re particular.”

“I have already forgotten.” Then Severus starts in surprise when Nizar picks up the scroll and hands it to him. “I’m not reading your correspondence.”

Nizar rolls his eyes. “It’s called permission, and you have it.”

Severus huffs out an annoyed breath and takes the scroll. “Are you actually hoping I’ll expire from shock?”

“No, I’m hoping you’ll get over your views regarding historical figures who needed to use the privy in the middle of the night, just like everyone else.”

“Why does that matter so much to you?” Severus asks.

“Because _I’m_ a slightly younger, portrait-preserved historical figure!” Nizar snaps, and then looks away. “Sorry.”

Dammit. Severus hadn’t quite thought of it that way—not in a long time.

He decides that the best response is to give in and read the bloody scroll. It unrolls smoothly, the paper as well-preserved as Salazar Slytherin’s bottled letter to his younger brother. It’s in three different sections composed by three different hands, and like Salazar’s Medieval Castilian, it’s almost undecipherable. “Old English again. I might know one word in five, Nizar.”

“Then I’ll help,” Nizar says, and traces the words for Severus to follow as he reads the unrecognizable bits of text aloud.

 

_Godric of Griffon’s Door in the realm of the Kingdom of England under the Reign of His Highness Harold I, House of Denmark and Northumbria,_

_Eorl of Castleview over_ _Hogewáþ in the Kingdom of_ _Moray under the Reign of Mac Bethad mac Findlaích_

_1 st October in the year 1,039_

_To Nizar Hariwalt, Lord of León, Casa de Deslizarse in Castile and Moray_

_Stop bleating. It’s my wand and I’ll give it to whom I choose, especially in these days of peace. The young ones don’t think so, but we saw the wars and strife that unified the north of this isle, those who are magical and those who are not. They have no idea what true bloodshed is like, and in my advancing years I find that I’m grateful._

_Yes, you read me correct. I’m glad to not be facing years of endless war. I much prefer teaching, or to have spry great-grandchildren on my knee. I never thought to know this kind of peace, and with it I can let go of a wand that soaked in the blood of far too many wars._

_That is not the only reason I pass it on, of course. You remain one of the best students I’ve ever taught to point a wand, Nizar, and remained one of the only men who could best me until that time was past. You and your sarding serpents._

_Teach others to be as cunning, and as brutal._

_Godric Grypusdor_

 

*          *          *          *

 

_The Lady Helga Hugðilepuf in the Kingdom of Alba_

_The Lady Helga Hlodvirsdóttir_ _of the Norse Earldom of Orkney in the Reign of Rognvald Brusason_ _and Thorfinn Sigurdsson_ _, Earls of Orkney_

_The Kingdom of Moravia under the Reign of Mac Bethad mac Findlaích_

_5 th October in the year 1,039_

_To Nizar Hariwalt, el Lord de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castilla y Moravia_

_Godric showed me what he wrote, and I fear I won’t be nearly as boisterous. I miss you, dearest friend, a feeling that grows with every repeated insistence on a lady’s proper place. You would be so offended on our behalf, but would be too kind to try and take away my pleasure in showing fools exactly what a lady’s proper place is meant to be._

_Of course, then I sleep for days afterward and awaken to the scolding of Alicia’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Rowena need not be concerned about her lineage failing—Alicia made up for Houdin’s lack, and dear Helena’s departure, and decided to create an entire horde of Ravenclaws all on her own._

_No, she never wed. I don’t think anyone ever dared to ask. Like her mother, Alicia is a force of nature._

_Despite the hounding of those with good intent, I regret not at all being the instrument of another’s mindfulness. My magic only sings clearly to me now when I am angry, allowing me to act as a proper vǫlva. I find it fascinating that magic depends much on a healthy body, and wonder how Myrddin lived such a long life without losing magic from his grasp. I once imagined myself to be as stubborn. Perhaps Myrddin’s talents lay beyond the stubborn, and it was instead the touch of the gods upon his wand._

_I see the faces the others make when they think I do not know. I am ill, not blind, deaf, or foolish. I know my time comes soon to join with those already dwelling in my family’s halls, though I know not when. The others mourn because I am young, but I’ve seen and done enough for fifty lifetimes on this earth. I do not mind._

_Godric understands best, I think. He teases me about leaving them to fend for themselves, and that my wand is needed here. I tell him that if I’m being called home, then my wand is most certainly needed there, and he has two wands already to wave about._

_He didn’t want me to write that, but that is an argument that I won by cursing these letters to never fade._

_Be swift and fierce, dearest. I hope that you never forget me, for I certainly will never forget you._

_Helga_ _Hugðilepuf, _Vǫlva of Moray__

 

*          *          *          *

 

_Duchess Hrodwunn, House of Hrabanklawa within the bounds of the Duchy of Bavaria held by Conrad II, himself lower than His Majesty, Emperor Henry III of the Holy Roman Empire_

_The Kingdom of Moravia under the Reign of Mac Bethad mac Findlaích_

_11 th October in the year 1,039_

_To Nizar Hariwalt, el Lord de León, Casa de Deslizarse de Castilla y Moravia_

_I’m angry with Helga and Godric for already saying all that is useful and heartfelt. What is left for me, then?_

_Don’t give me that look. I hear enough of such comments regarding the might of my quill from Godric and Salazar, who seem to feel they need to make up for the lack of your own feathery jests. You see now why I’ve included a feather from my prized Bertram. I have others, but this was the one gifted to me, and now I gift it to you, a legal and binding agreement you accepted by unrolling this scroll._

_If I’d warned you, you wouldn’t have opened it, would you? I’ll even make up for it: if ever you need a favor from the Green Folk, you may take Bertram’s silver-tipped feather to the goblins. They will grant you much to have such a gift back in their hands, so be certain it is a trade worth what is being paid._

_This is a truth you will be aware of by the time you read these words, but I still feel the need to say them: Salazar is leaving us._

_He’s said nothing of it, yet, but I’ve known him for long years now, and I see his heart. Salazar has been restless since dear Marion was lowered into the earth to join her brother. The losses of Imeyna and Zuri since that time made his grief worsen, but I fear it was Fortunata’s passing in Augustus that may have broken his heart, as it took away his last link on this earth to dearest Orellana._

_Galiena knows. I could see it in her eyes as much as I read the nature of Salazar’s heart. I asked if she would attempt to sway him, and she refused. I said that he undertook a fool’s quest in regards to you, and she said this to me:_

_Would you have me keep him here? Would you wish for my Uncle to die of heartbreak and helplessness within these walls? I’d rather he die in the wilderness, free._

_Your daughter reminded me of how alike you and Salazar are. When he departs, I will not stop him, but I do not think Godric will take it well. That will certainly be an argument for the ages, will it not?_

_May wisdom guide your hand, dearest Nizar. When it cannot, then by all means, make the fools suffer._

_Rowena of Raven’s Claw_

 

Severus rolls up the scroll. “Did Helga always couch her intent to murder someone in pretty words?”

Nizar laughs at the question. “Helga was like that _all_ the time. She was sweet-voiced and sweet of expression, even if she was decapitating some fool who’d most certainly earned the pleasure.”

“You realize, of course, that this is not helping.”

“Not helping what?” Nizar asks.

“You’re _all_ bloody nobility!” Severus replies, putting the scroll in the box so he isn’t tempted to hit Nizar with it.

“Yes, but you fulfilled the terms of the agreement, so you can’t tell anyone.”

Severus looks at him and smiles. “I only agreed not to mock you.”

“Yes, but I said I’d kill you if you told anyone else,” Nizar counters.

He’s about to respond in a snide manner when something far more disconcerting occurs to him. “You wouldn’t,” Severus says, feeling frozen. “You actually wouldn’t.”

Nizar meets his eyes and then looks down at his lap. “No,” he admits. “I wouldn’t. Please don’t go and take advantage of that. I can still shove you into the lake in January.”

“I think the Black Lake in January might qualify as a fate worse than death,” Severus replies. “Dinner?”

Nizar holds out his arm. “I am not dressed for the Great Hall.”

“You are truly unobservant if you’ve missed the fact that Hogwarts is full of house-elves.”

“You’re _tetchy_ today.” Nizar grins. “What’d I do to earn the honor?”

“I was nice to Longbottom,” Severus grates out as Filky appears. She always has excellent timing.

“The horror,” Nizar drawls. “However, that wasn’t my doing. Hello, Filky.”

“Hello, Professors. Is the Professors wanting dinner here?” she asks, eying Nizar’s silk garb in a manner that suggests she finds it extremely inappropriate for public wear.

“I feel better, but that doesn’t mean I want to walk up and down seven flights of stairs. Here, please,” Nizar says. “Thank you.”

“The Professor Slytherin is welcome!” Filky declares, and Disapparates.

After dinner, Nizar pulls on a dressing gown that is too new not to have been thrust into his possession by a scandalized elf. Then he teaches Severus a true invisibility charm, _Invisibilia in oculis vestris_.

Severus holds up his hand and sees no hint of motion. The Disillusionment Charm does not disguise motion, but with this, there might as well be nothing before his eyes at all. “That is so much more effective than the Disillusionment Charm.”

“It truly is.” Nizar holds out his hand. “Otherwise you’ll lose me. Come on,” he insists, waggling his fingers. Severus gives in and takes Nizar’s hand in a firm grasp. A moment later, Nizar is gone from his sight.

“Please do not teach this to the students,” Severus says, thinking on how Potter’s Invisibility Cloak was bad enough.

“Seventh-years only. After ethics. I’ve _met_ Fred and George Weasley, and I know better,” Nizar promises. Then he leads Severus expertly around students as he takes them down to the fourth floor. In a quiet passage where their steps echo like sharp cracks, a sure sign in a magical castle that the passage sees almost no use at all, is a life-sized portrait of a young woman. She has Nizar’s bronze skin, bound black hair, and brown eyes that seem both fiery and soulful. She is dressed in a green, full-length gown similar in cut to the Grey Lady’s. It’s split for riding beyond the bounds of what decency at the time would have dictated, revealing trews and tall boots beneath. Her wand is on prominent display, tucked into the sash wrapped around her waist with skillful, folded lines of cloth.

“ _Patere conspectibus_ ,” Nizar says. Severus repeats the phase after Nizar reappears and commits both phrases for the Invisibility Charm to memory.

“This is The Lady Fortunata Constanza of León, Casa de Luz de Sol of Castile,” Nizar introduces him to the portrait. “Fortunata, Professor Severus Snape.”

Severus falls back on some of the manners Narcissa drilled into his head. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Fortunata replies, dipping her head in smiling acknowledgement. “It is nice to meet you, Head of my father’s House.”

“She’s Salazar’s eldest daughter, but claimed the name of her mother’s House when Salazar had another Heir that could be named to Casa de Deslizarse,” Nizar explains. “Estefania complained that Fortunata married below her station.”

“As if a magician cared about such things,” Fortunata says, smiling again. There is a familiar sharp edge to it that Severus assumes she got from her father. “As least my spouse was not _boring_.”

“Proper priorities, always.” Nizar smiles. “Fortunata was my first apprentice when she came of age. At least, I think so. Am I remembering that in the correct order?”

Fortunata nods. “Yes, Uncle. I was first.” She seems smug about that. “The others might have had claim to the Founders, but I had first claim to the Protector.”

“I still have no idea what that means, dearest.”

Fortunata gives Nizar a surprised look. “It will come to you. It isn’t my place to say.”

“Is this similar to Salazar’s instruction that no one be allowed into his quarters?” Nizar asks.

The portrait seems thoughtful. “It might be. It might not be. Perhaps I just want to see you say many foul words in frustration.”

“I love you, too,” Nizar says in a flat voice, but his gaze is fond. “I’m going back to my quarters before I fall down in this passageway, dearest. Have a good evening.”

“Good evening, Uncle.”

Severus waits until they’re back inside Nizar’s quarters, and Nizar has shed the dressing gown and flopped down onto the sofa. “Salazar Slytherin’s living quarters lie beyond the bounds of that portrait,” he says, wanting Nizar to confirm it.

“They do,” Nizar says, his head resting on the back of the sofa. He looks exhausted, and Severus berates himself for not bothering to offer to Apparate them both back upstairs. “He left instructions to her that no one is to be allowed inside.”

“Oh, that sounds familiar.”

Nizar lifts his head, frowning. “You recall where I showed you the original entrance to the basilisk chamber below the school is, yes?”

Severus tries not to grimace. “As if I could forget.”

“The tunnel’s blocked off,” Nizar says. “It was not a neat job, either, and it wasn’t Salazar’s doing.”

“How do you know?” Severus asks.

“Salazar wouldn’t have blocked off the tunnel. He would have removed the tunnel entirely,” Nizar explains, still frowning in displeasure. “That wall wouldn’t have opened because there would have been nothing behind it to reveal. There is no terrible reason Fortunata won’t let anyone inside. Sal valued his privacy, Severus. That’s all.”

“Fair enough.” Severus still doesn’t like the idea of the Chamber of Secrets, but at least now it’s no longer an easily accessible point from his own damned quarters. “Have you been down by the other route in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?”

Nizar glances at Kanza, who is coiled up on her rock, sleeping. “No. Not yet. I haven’t been…a lot has happened this month, Severus. I keep tripping over things I didn’t expect. Kanza and I will go down there eventually. It isn’t as if poor Jalaf is going anywhere.”

Severus thinks about it before he holds out his hand. Nizar takes it, curious, and then his eyes widen as Severus pulls Nizar to his feet. “Go to bed,” Severus orders. “Don’t spend the night on this sofa. I’ve detentions with Gryffindors all day tomorrow, so I expect to see you at dinner. If you’re not in the Great Hall, I’ll come up here and drag you out just to ensure that the rest of the staff don’t think I’ve murdered you and stashed your body in a wardrobe.”

Nizar blinks a few times before nodding. “That sounds good. I wonder what happens to a dead body in a Vanishing Cabinet?”

“If everyone is fortunate, the dead body becomes Narnia’s problem.”  


	15. The Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did your peculiar serpent want yesterday?”
> 
> “To hear himself speak, mostly."

Nizar wakes up Saturday morning to a phoenix perched on the foot of his bed. “Ugh, no, not yet,” he mutters. Fawkes warbles at him, a high-pitched sound that feels like it’s trying to burrow into his skull. “Okay! Fine. What is it?”

Fawkes drops a scroll onto his bed and vanishes in a burst of flame. Nizar picks up the scroll, which has Hogwarts’ seal on it. The missive inside is in Dumbledore’s handwriting, and very short once he carves through the excessive language: _Arthur and Molly Weasley would like to meet with you today regarding Ginevra Weasley’s boggart lesson this past Thursday. It’s reached my ears that you’re unwell, so they will await your convenience._

Nizar stumbles out to the bathroom, relieves himself, and tries to drown himself in cold water from the sink tap just to be somewhat conscious. He dries off and finds a quill, then locates an inkpot, penning a response on the scroll: _I’ll take care of it. Thank you._ “ _Revertere ad_ Dumbledore.”

With that done, Nizar calls for a house-elf. Dobby answers him, wearing metallic silver socks and a bright green shirt long enough to fall to his knees, one that might have belonged to a toddler. “Good morning, Professor Slytherin!”

“Your shirt matches your eyes,” Nizar says, glad that it’s at least not eye-gouging lime green. “Good morning. I think.”

“Dobby is being aware that Professor Slytherin thinks mornings are terrible things,” the elf assures him. “The Professor Slytherin is feeling better?”

“After you, Filky, and Tinny decided to spend a day shoving potions at me? Yes, thank you.” Nizar scrubs his hands through his hair. “Can you bring breakfast, or did I miss it entirely?”

Dobby looks offended. “The Professor Slytherin could ask for breakfast at midnight, and breakfast is what he would receive.”

The elf brings him enough food to choke a goat. Nizar gives Dobby a wry look. “I need to be more specific, don’t I?”

“Dobby brought tea,” Dobby says helpfully.

“And bless your entire existence for it. I have to meet people today and probably convince them that I’m not going to eat their precious child.” Nizar grips the teacup and tries not to scowl.

Dobby reaches over and pats his knee. “Not everyone be thinking of Slytherins as the enemy, Professor Slytherin.”

“No, but they’re often not dealing with literal Slytherins.” Nizar finds his eyes drawn to the fireplace. “Floo travel. I know Severus’s quarters are part of that network. What does it take to connect a different fireplace?”

“House-elves know how, but house-elves cannot be doing it without permission from the Headmaster,” Dobby says, “even free house-elves like Dobby. However, the Professor Slytherin is holding part of Hogwarts’ magic. If Professor Slytherin asks for it, we house-elves will do it.”

“Hogwarts’ elves believe I outrank this school’s Headmaster?” Nizar asks, entertained by the idea.

Dobby shrugs. “Professor Slytherin be holding part of Hogwarts’ magic as the Protector. Headmaster Dumbledore is aware of Hogwarts’ magic, but he doesn’t hold it.”

“Do you know what my being the Protector means? Because I certainly don’t,” Nizar mutters.

“It be meaning that Professor Slytherin defends us,” Dobby says. “Dobby will be telling the other elves that we be adding the Professor Slytherin’s fireplace to the Floo Network!”

“Do me a favor,” Nizar says, catching the elf before he can Disapparate. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Dobby nods rapidly enough to make his ears flap. “Of course not, Professor Slytherin! We house-elves be telling no one.”

Nizar waits until the elf is gone. “I’d really like to find out why you refer to yourself as a free elf.” He never remembers to ask when he’s awake and capable of discussing political situations, but the original agreement between the elves and Hogwarts’ Founders…he worries about that distinction, as it shouldn’t be necessary.

Filky comes to take the breakfast tray, and to announce that the fireplace is connected to the Floor Network. Nizar nods his thanks while staring at the fireplace. “That was fast. Is there any way to shield it?”

The house-elf nods at once. “Professor Snape is being the best to ask. He is keeping his Floo connection warded against everyone but himself.”

“I’m glad I knew that before trying to visit that way. What do you know about the Weasley clan heads, Filky?”

“Filky doesn’t know the Mister and Missus Weasley, Professor Slytherin,” she says. “Filky can be getting Dobby the free-elf. Dobby knows!”

“The Mister and the Missus Weasley?” Dobby tugs on one ear thoughtfully after he Apparates into the sitting room. “Dobby met them once in Diagon Alley. They is seeming very nice, but they is also…” Dobby lowers his voice and ducks his head. “They is also being very poor. Some of the Weasley students don’t mind, but Ron Weasley does.”

“That would explain why Weasley has been staring at some of my clothes,” Nizar says. “Understated, then. After I get dressed, please show me how the _hell_ I use a Floo.”

The problem with understated dress is that he literally owns nothing of the sort. “Dammit, Helga,” Nizar mutters fondly, finally settling on a black robe edged in silver.

When he comes back out into the sitting room, Dobby is holding a jar. “This being Floo Powder,” he explains, holding it up to Nizar. “When the Professor Slytherin be needing to use the Floo, a pinch goes into the flames. Then the Professor Slytherin announces where he wishes to go, and the Floo Network will take him there.”

“Should I know anything else?” Nizar asks, giving the jar a doubtful look. Apparition or flight both sound far more appealing.

Dobby wraps his arms around himself. “Dobby has been seeing other wizards do this in the Floo.”

“Right.” Nizar gives in to the inevitable. “I have no idea what proper etiquette for this is. Can you go on to their home and ask if they’re all right with me just…stumbling out of their fireplace?”

Dobby nods. “Dobby be going to ask right now!” he exclaims, and Disapparates in an excited blur.

Nizar puts the jar on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. “Maybe I can just ask them to come here,” he mutters, except the elves would start conspiring about dragging him into the twentieth century again. Severus would probably help them.

Dobby returns a few minutes later. “They is saying anytime is fine, Professor Slytherin,” he says. “Floo Powder, and the Weasley home is called The Burrow!”

Nizar follows instructions, makes sure his wand is secure, and watches the flames turn green. Then he proceeds to experience the worst two minutes of his entire life. The nauseating twisting, turning, and disorienting bending ends when the Weasley’s fireplace spits him out. Nizar trips over a loose hearthstone and brains himself on the seat of a chair.

“Oh, bugger this,” Nizar groans, clasping both hands over his aching forehead. “Never again. Absolutely not.”

“I’m _so_ sorry!”

Nizar lifts his head to see a brown-eyed ginger woman with a stout build rushing towards him. “I always tell Arthur he leaves that chair far too close to the fireplace—”

“It isn’t the chair’s fault,” Nizar tries to say, but she’s already hauling him up by his elbow, using her wand to remove soot from his clothes. Then he’s being guided into a kitchen and pushed down into a chair. A towel full of ice is shoved into his hands.

Nizar rests the towel against his head. “You are _definitely_ the mother of seven children. Everything about your last four suddenly makes perfect sense.”

Molly Weasley beams at him. “Thank you!” She pushes open a door and shouts, “ARTHUR! PUT THAT MUGGLE CONTRAPTION AWAY AND COME GREET OUR GUEST!”

Nizar uses the opportunity to glance around at a cramped kitchen made of warm wood and filled with sunlight. Their clock doesn’t seem to give a damn about time. It has nine hands with nine names on it, but instead of numbers, it has slots marked Ministry, Traveling (useful), Feeding Chickens, De-gnoming the Garden (poor gnomes), Working, Mortal Peril (cheerful), Hogwarts, Mischief (Fred and George’s clock-hands look to be stuck there), and Home. It makes him hope that there is a real clock somewhere else in the house.

Arthur is as ginger as his wife and children, though he has blue eyes like Ron Weasley, and the two share facial features. Molly looks more like the twins, which would probably horrify them. “Hello!” Arthur sticks out his hand, and if Nizar hadn’t already witnessed the custom of shaking hands, he wouldn’t have known what to do. “Pleasure to meet you. Arthur Weasley, Head at the Muggle Misuse of Magical Artefacts Office within the Ministry. This is my wife, Molly.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Nizar deSlizarse, Professor of Defence at Hogwarts, and I met your chair,” Nizar says to explain the towel full of ice. “Not the chair’s fault. First time in a Floo. Hopefully it will be my absolute last.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Arthur says, but he seems a bit less concerned about the chair than his wife. “Floo travel is definitely not for everyone, but it’s convenient when the children are too young to Apparate.”

“DeSlizarse. Not Slytherin?” Molly asks politely, eying her husband as if he’s being offensive. Nizar has no idea how; Arthur just strikes him as boisterous.

“Slytherin for speakers of Cumbric and Old English. Casa de Deslizarse in Castilian, and deSlizarse when we tried desperately to make it easier for people of the isle to say,” Nizar explains. “Given that people have been saying Slytherin for one thousand years, I think it’s too late to convince people to go with the Castilian.”

“Fascinating,” Arthur says in the same breath that Molly offers, “Tea?”

“Tea is fine, thank you.”

Molly catches him in the middle of studying her kitchen again after she puts on a kettle to boil. “I do apologize for the mess.”

“Mess? This place is bloody spotless!” Nizar smiles. “I was just thinking that I liked it. Comfortable space.”

“I’m sure you’re used to better,” Molly says, busying herself with the tea tray.

“I live in a castle with several hundred students. I’m not sure how that’s better,” Nizar says dryly.

Arthur grins. “It’s not as stuffed to the gills as it should be. When all of ours are home, it’s like this place is bursting at the seams!”

“That’s when it’s the best, though, isn’t it?”

Arthur looks sympathetic. “Ginny did mention that you…had children.”

“Three children and four grandchildren, though after 1017 the grandchildren decided to multiply as well,” Nizar answers. That gets the three of them involved in a discussion of Nizar’s family, which makes the line of tension ease out of Molly’s shoulders, and for Arthur’s wide, dissembling smile to turn more serious.

 _One overcompensates with mothering, and one is a sly, sly bastard_ , Nizar thinks, amused. Both traits are definitely useful. “You know, all four of your children are doing very well in Defence,” he says, nudging the conversation back towards the point of his visit.

“All four?” Molly asks, the line of tension coming back.

“Yes. Well, Ronald is improving,” Nizar clarifies, “given that it took him a month to stop referring to me as the enemy, but that is progress and therefore it counts.”

Molly rests her face in her hands. “Oh, Ron.”

“I thought it was funny,” Nizar tells her. “The twins are brilliant, by the way.”

Arthur nods, but Molly looks incredulous. “They are?”

“I think you don’t hear that near as much as you should. They’re brilliant enough to be assisting me with the younger students, and no other seventh-year in Defence is capable of that, yet.” _Not that there are very many of them._

“They hadn’t mentioned a thing,” Arthur says in a thoughtful tone.

Nizar refuses to look in Molly’s direction. He knows exactly why, and he doesn’t understand her attitude towards George and Fred at all. “Perhaps it was meant to be a surprise, and I spoiled it. If that’s the case, wait for them to mention it first.”

Arthur smiles and nods. “That sounds like it’s for the best.” Nizar glances into his eyes and considers his hypothesis of “sly bastard” more than confirmed. Arthur Weasley is well aware of the situation between the twins and his wife.

“And Ginny?” Molly wraps her hands around her teacup instead of clasping them together in concern.

“Delightfully vicious. Last week’s boggart was her only moment of hesitation, but then, it’s not everyone who has to deal with Tom Marvolo Riddle as their damned boggart,” Nizar says bluntly. “You should consider what she did _not_ do rather than what she did.”

“Such as?” Arthur asks, while Molly’s lips press together in an unhappy line.

“When faced with a man who literally almost killed her, Ginevra Weasley did not scream, shriek, flail, or retreat. She stood her ground, even if his presence was unexpected. She’s not scared, Arthur and Molly. She’s furious, and the next time she faces that boggart, she won’t hesitate.”

Molly’s eyes widen in outrage. “When she faces it again?” Arthur looks at her in concern, but remains silent.

Nizar thinks he’s starting to suspect the root of the twins’ difficulty with their mother. “Molly, the point of the boggart exercise is to confront your fears, not be controlled by them. I know she’s underage now, but what if Voldemort is still alive when Ginny is seventeen? I’d rather her be able to react, even if her only reaction is to flee a grave danger—which yes, is a valid defence. Ending up dead because you were too undereducated or too foolish to flee from a superior foe is useless, and doesn’t help anyone.”

Molly stares at him for a minute. “You’re not the man I expected, Professor Slytherin.”

“Nizar,” he corrects. “And believe me, I hear that almost every day.”

“What was old Salazar like, then?” Arthur asks, curious.

“Well, he had dark hair and greener eyes than myself, but otherwise there isn’t much difference.” Nizar touches the end of his nose. “Well, his nose was straighter, too.”

Arthur laughs at his answer, but Molly is more dogged about it. “But his…personality.”

Nizar tilts his head. “I’m his brother, Molly. Why would you believe my word as to what kind of man Salazar was? I would most certainly be considered a biased source.”

Molly isn’t swayed. “Try me.”

“I had five nieces and nephews, and they were all delightful,” Nizar says. “My own three children and my daughter’s children adored their uncle. Children do not adore a man who is vile, no matter how nice he appears on the surface. Even if they can’t articulate it, they always know.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar makes it to dinner on Saturday evening without Severus needing to drag him down to the Hall. He is gracious about the well-wishing he receives from exactly three people before he starts scowling. “For gods’ sake, I wasn’t dying. Can we please discuss something else?”

“Can we discuss your dating life?” Aurora asks, propping her chin on her hand.

Severus returns his gaze to the Slytherin table, keeping an eye out for mischief, but that doesn’t mean he stops listening. Nizar’s confusion is evident in his voice. “Dating?”

“You and Severus,” Pomona says without any hint of subtlety at all.

“Ah.” Nizar pauses. “You do realize I’ve known Severus since 1971, right?”

“Oh.” Pomona sounds disappointed and drops the subject. Minerva eyes Severus, but he refuses to be so easily baited. He’s preoccupied by the fact that Nizar didn’t deny it.

Any planning he might have accomplished on Sunday is utterly demolished when Severus awakens that morning to pain in his left arm. He growls under his breath, gets dressed, and sends a brief missive by house-elf to Albus that states only that Severus will be unavailable. The Headmaster will immediately understand why.

The meeting with the Dark Lord is not painful in the physical sense. Instead, it’s long and tedious. Worse, Severus learns nothing of substance. Voldemort is upset about his Death Eaters’ inability to find Potter. He’s incensed over Nizar’s lack of response to his torture of Severus—fortunately, he isn’t incensed enough to repeat the experiment.

Voldemort is also once again interested in that damned prophecy, but what good would it do to retrieve it? They know the full prophecy already. The Order will still need to be warned of the Dark Lord’s intentions regarding the Ministry, if only due to the danger to those working inside those irritating halls.

Severus reflects in distant irritation that Voldemort has grown to love the sound of his own voice since his resurrection. He spoke often during the first war, but not to ridiculous excess. Perhaps he’s misremembering?

He steals a quick glance at certain faces and observes that underneath their lingering terror, even the Malfoys seem bored beyond measure. No, Severus is not recalling incorrectly. He supposes if someone spent years trapped on the back of Quirrell’s head, they might be desperate for conversation, but this hardly counts.

Then Voldemort orders them all to stay and socialize. Severus clenches his jaw and bows in time with the others to show their assent to his wishes. God take it, he hates when this rubbish occurs on a weekend. He doesn’t even have the excuse of a Sunday detention to use as his means of escape. He has to endure the Riddle Manor while breathing in mold. The allergy-induced headache grows with every hour that passes, assisted by inane conversation with idiots.

Narcissa, at least, is not an idiot. He has no idea what her true motives are, but she either expresses genuine concern, or feigns it well enough. “I’m glad to see you well after last week,” she tells him in a low voice.

Severus keeps his expression impassive. “I literally nearly died of it.”

She tilts her head, studying him with wary curiosity. “Then I’m surprised you returned.”

Severus gives her an incredulous look. “And drop dead the moment the Dark Lord suspected I wasn’t coming back? I do not think so.”

“Of course not,” Narcissa agrees, a flicker of fear in her eyes that is gone almost before Severus can recognize it. “I hope you will visit the manor over the winter break, Severus. It has been too long since my family enjoyed your company.”

Severus inclines his head. “Whenever my Lady Malfoy wishes me to attend her family, she need only send word by owl.”

“Your lovely manners would suit in a royal court, Severus." Narcissa holds out her hand. He takes it, planting the courtier’s false kiss, and watches as she wanders off to seek out Marguerite Davis.

Severus sips at the wine that Nott brought from his family’s cellar, thinking that another six months would see it gone off. Perhaps Nott believes the Dark Lord to have no taste buds. It’s a dangerous assumption to make, and a foolish one—serpents have an excellent combined sense of taste and smell.

As if his thoughts drew him forth, Voldemort appears at Severus’s side. “Severus. You do not care for the company we keep?”

“Skilled conversationalists are rare on the ground, My Lord.”

Voldemort smiles. “You always were very particular about such things. We are quite similar in that regard. Tell me: does our Slytherin in Hogwarts have skills in the art of conversation?”

Severus nods. “Nizar Slytherin can speak the truth while telling someone nothing at all,” he says, thinking of Saturday evening’s dinner.

“I’d hoped so. I will be seeing Nizar again soon, Severus. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Oh?” Severus dares a look at Voldemort, but he politely averts his eyes again.

“My apologies, old friend, but I cannot share those plans with you. You dwell in the same school as our returned Slytherin. I’m sure you understand,” Voldemort says, resting his hand on Severus’s arm.

Severus refuses to tense, even though the Dark Mark’s burn intensifies at Voldemort’s touch. “Of course, My Lord. You are wise, as ever.”

“And your tongue as clever,” Voldemort replies, cold amusement lurking in his eyes. “Is there anything else you can tell me of this man? Some new bit of information that might prove useful?”

 _There is so much you will never know_ , Severus thinks. “I’ve recently discovered that Nizar Slytherin’s first magical apprentice was Salazar Slytherin’s eldest child. I’m given the impression that they were a formidable magician.”

“I would expect that a son of Slytherin would be nothing less,” Voldemort says, and pats Severus’s arm. “Return to Hogwarts, Severus. I mustn’t keep you from them too long.”

It isn’t difficult to make his deep relief sound like disappointment. “Very well, My Lord.”

Severus leaves the manor and walks until he’s outside the Fidelius Charm. The rotting house disappears, leaving behind the appearance of an empty field and hillside that the local Muggles avoid. They can remember that the Riddle Manor once stood there, but argue often about what became of it.

When he’s certain he hasn’t been followed, and no one is watching, Severus Apparates directly back to his quarters within Hogwarts. It’s the first time he’s Apparated into the castle while beyond its bounds. There is a mild sensation of being squeezed about the middle, more than standard Apparition creates, but he arrives with all of his limbs intact.

The very first thing he does is strip off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor. Then he all but drowns himself in the bathtub to get mold out of his sinuses and the lingering sensation of Voldemort’s hand off of his bloody arm.

A piece of paper appears in the air and floats down towards him. Severus grabs it, curious, and finds Nizar’s handwriting: _Where’ve you been? I’m nosy._

Severus gets dressed before finding a quill. _I had to deal with a peculiar snake,_ he writes, noting that it’s nearing eleven o’clock. He spent the entire day in that blasted pit. “ _Revertere ad_ Nizar,” he says, and the paper vanishes.

He’s trying to convince himself to eat something before bed when the paper returns. _Did this peculiar serpent hurt you? I’m keeping score._

Severus finds himself smiling. He’s growing fond of the idea that someone might be bloodthirsty and vengeful on his behalf. _This serpent chose an unpleasant place to nest. Bloody mold._

The house-elves have convinced him to eat garlic-laced flatbread by the time the paper returns. _Those poor mint plants._

Severus lets out a brief, silent laugh before he balls up their odd correspondence and tosses it into the fire. Then he goes to bed, feeling more at peace than he has any right to expect.

He ruins it by oversleeping on Monday morning. He throws on his clothes and stalks out of his quarters, and is nearly late to breakfast.

At the table, Nizar and Minerva are already at war. It isn’t really a war, as such, but the moment Nizar discovered that Minerva McGonagall also excelled at verbal parries, their conversations have been the sharp-edged, delightful smiles of cats who are trying to eviscerate each other for fun.

“And what is it this morning?” Severus asks as he seats himself beside Minerva, who sits between the two Slytherins as if she’s meant to moderate.

Nizar sounds miffed. “She accused me of being a Gryffindor!”

“I merely said you shared certain Gryffindor-like traits,” Minerva returns primly.

“I don’t drink enough to share Gryffindor-like traits!” Nizar retorts, which nearly sets Minerva off in a gale of half-choked laughter.

“Would it be so offensive?” Severus asks, smirking. “You always do claim that the Houses were not divided in your time.”

“No, mostly it’s the fact that I am most certainly not Anglo-Saxon,” Nizar replies. “That man had his own family—and I do mean he had a lot of family. Most magicians in the isles can trace their lineage back to that man.”

Minerva coughs daintily behind a napkin. “My own included, thank you very much.”

“There; you owe your family line to one oversized redhead’s inability to keep it in his trousers for more than a day at a time.”

“I did not need that mental image. Ever.” Severus closes his eyes in self-defence. It doesn’t help.

“All right, then. If you were to choose a House based on our _modern_ standards, what would it be?” Minerva asks, smiling again.

“Modern stand—Minerva McGonagall, I was eighteen years old when someone accidentally brought that moth-eaten bit of felt to life with a miscast charm. It took another year for Godric and Rowena to figure out how to make the Hat behave itself and stop biting people. They eventually taught it to discern who would be a student’s best primary teacher until their apprenticeships. By then, we realized that Helga, Rowena, Godric, and Salazar would need assistants who shared in their traits, so the first generation of teachers were Sorted with only two incidents.”

“Oh, history. I’m enthralled.” Minerva makes it sound sarcastic, but she is also quite serious. “What were the two incidents in question?”

“The Hat couldn’t resist the urge to bite someone who was nervous about talking clothing,” Nizar says. “Alva never quite trusted hats after that, the poor bastard. The second incident was when I volunteered to help make sure the stupid bit of drunken felt could do its job. I had a Hat dropped onto my head, and after about five minutes of silence, it said, ‘Help, I have no idea what to do with this!’”

“You were a Hat-stall!” Minerva clasps her hands in delight. “I was the last one. It simply couldn’t make up its mind between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw until I finally told it to just put me in Gryffindor, if only so it would stop making pathetic noises.”

“Hat-stall? No. I mean, the Hat couldn’t make any decision,” Nizar counters. “I am a Slytherin by direct family association, and thus, yes, of certain very particular behaviors, but in terms of magical talent? The Hat was clueless. It’s why I was Defence instructor for _all_ , not merely students of my brother’s House.”

“What do you mean?” Pomona asks, leaning over the table to look at Nizar. “We all teach to all Houses.”

“Yes, but that isn’t how it once was.” Nizar pauses and sighs. “Well, since everyone at this bloody table is listening in, that does save me from having to repeat myself, doesn’t it?”

When Severus looks over at him, Albus is twinkling in a way that often means irritating mischief. “It does indeed.”

“Rude,” Nizar mutters, and then launches into an explanation that everyone is paying rapt attention to. “Four Founders. Four Houses. A student began here most often at age eight, not eleven. During that time they would learn the basics in both types of schooling, magical and Muggle. Oh, and Muggle is an insult, by the way. Everyone in this century has forgotten what basic blasted manners are.”

Severus knows that Muggle is an insulting term. He grew up knowing it, and it seems he was in the minority—most of the staff seems to be absolutely astonished by the idea.

“At age eleven, a student would be Sorted, which hasn’t changed. From then onto age fourteen, they would be taught only by teachers who were aligned to the House they were placed in. If a master of their chosen magical focus was within that House, they would continue their apprenticeship under that teacher from age fourteen to seventeen to earn their mastery in their chosen subject.” Nizar smiles. “My daughter was one of Rowena’s best Ravenclaw scribes, though no one believes she is of Rowena’s House because she’s a Parselmouth. Rude _and_ bigoted.

“If a student reached age fourteen and there was no master of their chosen craft within the castle, they would leave Hogwarts to find one. That’s what my son Brice had to do after completing his apprenticeship with Godric to gain another of his masteries. He studied under a magician who had a fine understanding of blood magic.”

“ _Blood magic_?”

Severus turns his head in time to see Nizar roll his eyes at Eustas’s bleat of dismay. “How do you defend against it unless you know how it works? Brice would have taken his mastery under me, but even that was considered a…wait. Modern term. Oh, yes; it was considered a conflict of interest. It could have been argued that I signed off on Brice’s education just because I was his parent, not because he truly knew what he was doing.”

“But you know blood magic?” Minerva asks, wide-eyed.

Nizar looks like he wants to bash his face into the tabletop. “I’m going to spend the rest of this school term repeating _I am a Defence teacher_ , aren’t I? Blood magic can do terrible things, yes, but its primary use is a healing tool!”

“Truly?” Poppy asks, peering around Charity.

“Yes, truly,” Nizar confirms. “Suppose someone has been bitten by an adder in a temper. An understanding of proper blood magic means that I can draw that venom out by sense and feel. It’s much faster and more efficient than a potion; the aftereffects someone would usually suffer from after a serious bite are mild to nonexistent.”

“But blood magic can be used in terrible ways. You admitted such yourself,” Filius says.

Nizar nods in agreement. “Why do you think I’m so angry about ethics being stripped from this school’s teachings?”

“Would you know how to construct, say, a soul jar?” Albus asks, sounding far too nonchalant.

Nizar bares his teeth. “I know how to defend against becoming one, and how to teach others the same, but there are some things you just do not _do_ to people.”

“I see.” Albus is giving Nizar his full attention, even if he’s masking it with that infuriating twinkling. “And if someone asked you how to create a soul jar?”

“I’d tell them to go do something unpleasant with an adder, and I wouldn’t help them deal with the results,” Nizar retorts. “Fortunately, no one has ever been stupid enough to ask me that. Why, do you have plans?”

Albus shakes his head. “No, I have no plans to do such a thing. I merely have suspicions.”

“Suspicions—” Nizar breaks off, frowning. “I see. If you’re not busy at five o’clock, perhaps we could have tea.”

“Tea sounds lovely,” Albus agrees with a cheerful smile. He then turns to Septima and resumes a conversation about something inane enough that Severus stops paying attention after two sentences.

After breakfast, Severus pulls Nizar aside while using the Invisibility Charm, hiding them behind a stone column as the students head off in varying directions for their first class. “What is a soul jar?” he asks in a soft voice without removing the charm.

Nizar glances around to note where people are in relation to their position. “Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

Severus rears back, nearly striking his head on the wall behind him. “Yes. That is—that’s how. That’s why _he_ won’t die.”

“It is, though he’s made more than one. Otherwise, the Killing Curse would have put him down on the ground instead of just making him flinch.” Nizar glances in Albus’s direction, where he is speaking with Filius while Filius tries not to let the herd of children accidentally cart him up the stairs. “What is very interesting to me is that Dumbledore was not surprised by the fact that a living being might need to learn how to defend themselves against becoming a Horcrux.”

“It isn’t supposed to be possible to turn a living being into a Horcrux.” Severus feels like he’s several steps behind a conversation he should have been well-versed in, and he despises that sensation.

“Oh, it’s possible,” Nizar says in apparent indifference, a direct contrast to the hard, unforgiving light in his eyes. “Most of us were smart enough not to teach that magic. It seems as if everyone in this century has forgotten, but somehow, Dumbledore knew. He knows of a living thing that is a Horcrux.”

Nizar seeks out and finds Severus’s hand, taking it in a gentle grip. “There is some very interesting blowback that happens if you try to turn a living being into a Horcrux without their consent, though Tempero nullifies that requirement. Most unpleasant results if you don’t remember the curse, though.”

“I see.” Severus feels a faint stir of nausea and suppresses it.

Nizar checks their surroundings again. “What did your peculiar serpent want yesterday?”

“To hear himself speak, mostly,” Severus answers. “But he also wants to steal a copy of that damned prophecy from the Ministry. I’ve no idea why he wants it; he knows all of it thanks to my stupidity.”

Nizar squeezes his hand. “You might have repeated the words that were spoken, but you weren’t the one who lifted your wand to act on it. See you this evening at dinner,” he says, and heads for the stairs.

Severus realizes he’s doing nothing more intelligent than staring after the man and makes himself stop. He waits until Nizar is out of sight and no one is looking to drop the Invisibility Charm. Then he walks to his classroom, deep in thought.

Potter. Voldemort tried to turn Potter into a Horcrux, but didn’t know it was different than the spell cast for an inanimate object.

No, Voldemort _succeeded_ at turning Harry Potter into a living Horcrux, else Albus would have no reason to be concerned. The blowback Nizar speaks of is what temporarily destroyed Voldemort’s physical form.

The scar. That damnable scar.

Severus spends the entire morning feeling undereducated and stupid for never associating that scar, Voldemort’s defeat, Potter’s survival, and Horcruxes together before. With the information before him, it is now beyond obvious.


	16. Soul Jars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not arrogance if I can actually do as I claim."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end of Part I. I'm 183 pages into Part IV. So, if you were concerned: yes, there is more. <3

Nizar’s meeting with Dumbledore at five o’clock is less enlightening and more just irritating. “Shall we discuss soul jars?” Dumbledore asks him in a pleasant voice after Nizar sits down. “Also, have a sherbet lemon. I love them.”

“Let’s talk about blood magic while having candy.” Nizar gives him an incredulous look. “Albus, there are some subjects one does not discuss simultaneously, and that is one of them.”

“A good point,” Dumbledore says thoughtfully. “I don’t retract the hospitality. Perhaps we truly should indulge in tea?”

“Tea is acceptable.”

Once he has tea, delivered by house-elf, Nizar regards Dumbledore in silence. To the man’s credit, he isn’t trying to read his thoughts again. “Slytherins like the notion of trading, Albus. I’m sure you’re aware of such a thing.”

Dumbledore nods. “I am. Are we trading today?”

“Oh, most likely.” Nizar puts his teacup down and smiles. “I know that there is a prophecy, one that involves Voldemort and Mister Potter. I’d like to hear it.”

Dumbledore frowns. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. That is information that has been carefully guarded.”

“Potter is still missing. You still have a threat to contend with. Do you want me to be able to do as I’ve been asked, or not?”

“I suppose it depends on the answer to my next question,” Dumbledore says. “Why you, Nizar?”

“Why not?” Nizar ponders one of the biscuits while deciding on the rest of his answer. “I’m not a Founder. I am thus historically unimportant, given that no one remembers a damned thing about those of us who are first generation teachers to this school. I’ve found a portrait of exactly one of them in this school aside from myself, and no one knows her name. I’ve already added a plaque to her frame, because by the gods of my childhood, I am going to remedy that lack. Besides, the corpse-like idiot is family, which makes him, in part, my responsibility.”

“He is a relative one thousand years removed. There are not many who would hold you responsible for Voldemort’s actions,” Dumbledore says.

Nizar decides to play the evening’s trump card. “I know you think Potter is a Horcrux, which is part of the reason you’re so frantic to discover his location.”

Dumbledore puts his teacup down and laces his hands together. “Yes, I do think so. I don’t think Voldemort intended to create a Horcrux when he attempted to kill Harry Potter as an infant, but Harry bears protective magic from his mother that safeguarded him. I believe the Horcrux’s creation was a side effect.”

“You can’t create a Horcrux as a side effect,” Nizar says in a scathing tone. “You either do, or you don’t—there is no ‘accident’ when it comes to a soul jar. Voldemort lost his corporal form when attempting to make a living Horcrux because he didn’t know how to do it, and we should all be grateful for that.

“Now, that protective magic you mentioned. It was created by the mother’s sacrifice?” Nizar waits for Dumbledore to nod. “That magic kept Mister Potter from being beholden to Voldemort in mind, body, and soul. Without that protection, Potter would do anything Voldemort asked. Sacrificial _blood magic_ acts as a barrier to keep that from happening.”

“I see. I didn’t realize that sort of sacrificial magic was considered a form of blood magic.”

“It’s last-ditch desperation,” Nizar says. “If you had even a basic understanding of blood magic, you knew how to do it. It was reserved for moments when there was literally no other way to safeguard what you protected.” Nizar decides a bit of personal history might help. “I almost had to do the same, once. The situation was dire, and I wasn’t about to let my youngest son die. Fortunately, Salazar arrived before it became necessary…but I would have done it. No hesitation, and no regret at all.”

“You loved them very much,” Dumbledore says.

Nizar gives the man an annoyed look. That should be beyond obvious.

Dumbledore leans back in his seat, not acknowledging his faux pas. “Could that same sacrificial magic have burnt Voldemort to ash?”

“You mean while he was possessing Quirinus Quirrell?” Nizar nods. “The strength of that sort of protection depends on the person granting it. Given that we’re discussing a mother and her threatened child, I’d say that the protective magic she granted to Mister Potter was very, very strong.”

“It’s unfortunate that Voldemort used a form of blood magic to nullify part of Lily Potter’s sacrificial protection. It was during the same ceremony that Voldemort used to give himself life again,” Dumbledore grants him. “Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy.”

Nizar puts his biscuit into his saucer, too appalled to consider eating it. “No wonder Voldemort looks like he just crawled out of a crypt. That’s base necromancy, and I do not mean basic. I mean _bad_.”

“How so?”

“By the nature of Blood-and-Bone, Voldemort could have chosen _anyone_ he considered an enemy,” Nizar says. “He is just learned enough in necromancy and blood magic to have known that by using Mister Potter, he was sabotaging part of the mother’s protective magic.”

“And what do you know of necromancy, Nizar?” Dumbledore asks in what seems to be genuine, polite curiosity.

“Not much,” Nizar answers at once. “When I say that I’m a teacher of Defence, I mean that I mastered all of the aspects that comprise magical defence. Necromancy is not about defence, though it also has useful, practical applications that don’t involve raising shambling corpses from the dead. The repair of a deteriorating magical node, for example, is a branch of necromancy. _Necro_ means ‘death’ first, not a dead body. _Mancy_ is a term for divination, but also can be a term for spirit. Go further back in the magical teachings, and it’s remembered that _mancy_ also refers to a state of mind. Given that broader definition of the term, it opens up a wide avenue of possibilities, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” Dumbledore agrees, picking up his cup to sip at his tea. “You are a fascinating teacher, Nizar.”

“And I still say it’s because I don’t know when to shut up, but sometimes that’s useful.”

“A prophecy in trade, then,” Dumbledore says with a decisive nod. “You’ve been helpful and instructive in things I’ve no knowledge of. I only ask that the prophecy not be repeated to anyone else, no matter the trust you have in them.”

Nizar nods. There are ways he can share a prophecy without repeating it aloud. “You have my word on it.”

“This was the prophecy given to me by our own Sybil Trelawney in one of her rare moments of true Sight: _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives_.”

Nizar stares at Dumbledore in disbelief, and not only because the prophecy is much longer than the version Severus knows. “Were you just going to let them kill each other in order to deal with your little Dark Lord problem?”

“There was no one with the knowledge to have removed that soul jar from young Mister Potter.” To Dumbledore’s credit, his entire being radiates sorrow and regret, and Nizar doesn’t think it false. “I did not know what else _to_ do, Nizar. As a Horcrux, Mister Potter’s life would eventually have become misery.”

Nizar grimaces. “Yes, fair point.” Living things carrying soul-shards from others tend not to live very pleasant lives.

“If Harry is found, could you fix it?” Dumbledore asks him.

“I could.” Nizar lets caution fill his voice. “But bear in mind that a soul shard causes damage. I can remove it, but there may be unpleasant side effects.”

“Such as?”

“Soul shards destroy things in the living being they’re placed in,” Nizar says. “It could be emotional damage. He could have lost memories. Some people simply…die. I swear to do my best, but I cannot put back what has been burnt away.”

Dumbledore seems to sigh. “I understand. Thank you for your honesty.”

Nizar taps his finger against the rim of his teacup. “There are many people who want to see Mister Potter found. What means are you using to try and find him?”

“A cheat, one I do not fully inform others about due to the nature of its creation.” Dumbledore touches his wand to a silver-and-bronze implement on his desk. It alights with a pale violet glow before the light fades away. “This was imbued with young Mister Potter’s blood during his infancy, with his parents’ permission. Due to the threat to Harry’s life, Lily and James wanted every possible protection in place, as well as any possible means crafted to be able to find Harry if someone were to successfully abscond with their child.”

“Which someone did.” Nizar regards the device, trying to discern how it functions. “I’ve never seen its like. Ravenclaw?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Dumbledore smiles. “Gryffindor, actually. The hat did debate between the two Houses for a minute—not long enough to qualify as a Hat-Stall, but time enough for people to grow concerned. I decided upon bravery, though I do not disdain the Ravenclaw traits of wisdom, wit, and the oft-forgotten creativity.”

“You are, perhaps, allowing the creativity to bury the wisdom, which isn’t wise at all, though neither objects to wit.” Nizar swallows the last of his tea and puts the cup onto the tray. “What did this device do when Potter was present?”

“It would glow with a green light tinged with gold, if he was safe and healthy. A green light only if he was safe but not healthy, something I did not pay as much attention to as I should have,” Dumbledore admits, “as it was that color from Hallowe’en in 1981 onward. It was purely gold while Harry was within Hogwarts, though I could never discern why. If he was in danger, it would glow bright white, and the mechanisms would shift and tell me how to find him in as swift a manner as possible. The night Harry vanished, the device lit up bright green, followed by bright gold, and then told me he was no longer here—hence the violet you saw a moment ago.”

Nizar glances up towards the high walls of the tower. “Godric!” he calls. “Go and stir up the others, would you?”

“Give me a minute!” Godric yells back.

“A meeting?” Dumbledore asks.

“An idea. I would like to make an adjustment to your device,” Nizar explains. “If you say no, then of course I won’t touch it. It’s your creation, after all.”

“I suppose that depends on what you intend to—ah, good evening,” Dumbledore greets the 1015 Founders’ portraits as they appear in the lowest-level frames. Nizar glances behind him to see that Phineas looks relieved that no one is trying to share portrait-space with him.

“I want to alter it to track anyone related to this child by blood, of which I am given to understand there are very few. It might point to a Founder, as well, which is why I wanted them present. Less confusing that way. I can even time it so we have a moment to discern where it’s pointing before it tries to find the next blood relation.”

Dumbledore smiles. “That would be intriguing, and yes, potentially very useful. If someone is using blood magic to hide the child, it might reveal him.”

“Perhaps.” Nizar retrieves his wand and makes the adjustments by feel of magic rather than words, which is similar to how the device was crafted. Intent often wins over language.

It’s a bit of a surprise to Nizar when the device points to himself, first. “Not my lineage,” he confirms on the device, but it isn’t granting him anything further.

The device then points at Salazar. “Also not my lineage, but someone from our family, for certain,” Salazar says, unsurprised. “I recognized that on his first day within these walls.”

“A second Heir of Slytherin?” Dumbledore asks, frowning.

Salazar looks annoyed. “One must be of _direct_ descent for that, Headmaster. Young Potter is not.”

Nizar frowns. He’s missing something important; he can tell just by the way Salazar is speaking to Dumbledore. Salazar hasn’t told him of something vital, which means he’s waiting for Nizar to fall onto it face-first.

The device then points at Godric. Nizar wants to put his face in his hands, but he has to pay attention to what this stupid thing is doing.

Dumbledore lifts an eyebrow. “Somehow, I am not surprised. Harry did call forth the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat.”

“It would be simpler to devise a spell that discerns who Godric is _not_ related to,” Nizar says in annoyance, wondering why Godric’s sword is being stored in that fucking Hat.

It also points at Rowena, who merely smiles. “Not a direct line of descent. Somewhere off to one side. A niece, maybe.”

Dumbledore’s device doesn’t point at Helga, which isn’t a surprise. It just makes him sad. “I told you to stab that stupid bastard.”

Helga shakes her head. “I was happy as I was, dearest.”

“Lies,” Nizar mutters, watching the device shift again. “Strongly south-east—definitely closer to the east than the south.”

“Little Hangleton lies in that direction. That would most likely be Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore says. “If anything, your alteration does give us a means to track Voldemort, at least to a vague extent.”

Nizar files away the fact that Dumbledore already knew Voldemort and Potter were distant relations. It will be interesting to find out how he’d discovered that information. “South-east again, but much further south.”

“I believe that would be London.” Dumbledore frowns. “That does not exactly narrow things down.”

“It’s better than zero results,” Nizar replies. “Who is this individual in London?”

“I knew of one possibility, but had already ruled him out.  Interesting. James never admitted to sowing wild oats before his marriage, but young men who wish to remain in good standing in the eyes of their intended often refuse to do so.”

They wait a moment longer, but the device makes no further movements. “All right, then. Maybe Potter’s father had the inclination you’re accusing James Potter of?”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore allows. “I am privy to the knowledge that James’s parents’ inability to easily produce children was related to physical difficulties on Euphemia’s part, not on Fleamont’s.”

“Fleamont? That poor, unfortunate bastard.” Nizar tries not to break up laughing. “Fleamont. Named after a mountain of parasites.”

“It was a wizarding family name in good standing that died out with James Potter’s grandmother.” Dumbledore tries to sound stern, but his eyes are twinkling. “I’m not certain you’re in the position to cast aspersions upon names. Your family name, Deslizarse, means ‘to slither.’”

Kanza untwines herself from Nizar’s neck long enough to perch on his shoulder. “ _What is wrong with slithering?_ ” she asks, insulted.

 _“It’s just bigotry that will take long years to fade, Kanza_ ,” Nizar tells her. “ _He doesn’t know any better_.”

“What have I said?” Dumbledore asks. He doesn’t seem to fear looking Kanza in the eyes.

Nizar strokes Kanza’s head with his fingernail before she agrees to go back to her favorite hiding place. “She wants to know what is so insulting and disreputable about slithering.”

“I have nothing against it, though the Christians disdain it,” Dumbledore says. “The temptation of the serpent.”

“Serpent—what—no, that particular book doesn’t talk about serpents! It just says that the one who did the tempting was cursed to crawl on their belly for the rest of their life. That could imply _any_ species, human included, since there were already plenty of those about at the time aside from those two naked idiots. Besides, how many species on this planet have bellies that drag on the earth when they walk? Not all of them are even reptilian,” Nizar bites out, incensed.

“I apologize. You’re correct, of course.” Dumbledore eyes the device, which is still pointing with vicious insistence towards London. “I will have friends look into this result. I am hoping it will prove to be Harry.” Dumbledore stands up. “And now, I believe we should be off to dinner. I have it on good authority that there will be an excellent roast this evening.”

The roast is excellent, but Nizar doesn’t have much of an appetite. One blood relation in London is an interesting result, but nothing was mentioned of the two in Surrey where Potter lived. Surrey is not that far removed from London, but Dumbledore seemed certain that London is what the device meant.

Who the hell is in London, and why didn’t that device point at Surrey? He resolves to ask Severus after dinner, as the man isn’t here. Nizar suspects he got caught up in grading and swearing under his breath, and forgot to eat while turning several dozen essays into an inky bloodbath.

Nizar makes his way upstairs, still frowning over the prophecy. _One must die at the hands of the other._

That can’t be right. He doesn’t doubt its accuracy, but prophecies are tricky. How is it that one of the two are not living while the other survives?

Why is prophecy so fucking stupid?

Nizar turns around in a full circle in his quarters. The idea of mind magic sharing still makes Severus leery, so that won’t do. He glances over at Brice, who is the only one of his three children in their portrait frame at the moment. “I need to find a _Pensife_. Do you where one is, or know someone who might know?”

Brice frowns. “ _They’ve become rare, Father. I know the Headmaster has one, but aside from that, I don’t know. Why not simply make your own_?”

“I might do that later, but it takes too long. I need one…” Nizar thinks about it. “Well, I need it sooner rather than later, and crafting my own takes several months. I think. You know what? I’ll just go find one. If I can’t even remember how long it takes to craft a _Pensife_ , I’ve no business trying to make one.”

“ _Very well. We’re all going to make ourselves scarce for the evening_ ,” Brice tells him, and vanishes.

Nizar stares at the row of empty frames. “Why? Godsdammit, why is everyone so _cryptic_ lately?”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Nizar has his new acquisition clean and sitting on the table when Severus knocks on his door. “Come in.” He waits for Severus to open the door before saying, “I’m just going to make that a permanent invitation.”

Severus gives him an irritable look. “I doubt I would stop knocking. It’s polite.” His eyes fall onto the red stone bowl on the table. “Where did you find a Pensieve?”

“Grave-robbing,” Nizar says absently, using a handkerchief to make certain the carvings and patterns on the outside of the bowl are clean.

“You did what?”

Nizar glances up at Severus. “Grave-robbing,” he repeats. “I didn’t have time to make my own, and I’m not sure I remember all the steps. I’ll put it back later. I don’t plan on _keeping_ it.”

Severus takes off his robe, hanging it on a strip of wooden pegs that the elves added near the door at some point when Nizar wasn’t paying attention. “Nothing you do should surprise me at all.”

“Probably not.” Nizar undoes the first few buttons so he can remove his own robe. The sleeves and hem are still coated in dust and crumbling earth. He grabs his wand and performs a basic cleaning spell, but it doesn’t help much. He takes it into the bathroom and places it inside yet another elf addition, a bloody laundry hamper made from woven dried grass. He’s starting to get the feeling the elves think he isn’t civilized.

When he comes back to the sitting room, Severus is studying the bowl while holding it in his hands. “What is this writing on the outer edge of the bowl?”

Nizar smiles. Whenever Severus is studying an item with such intent focus, he lets more of his true self shine forth, and Nizar doesn’t see it often enough. “The writing is Pictish.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“No, I still can’t read it. The curling ferns, though—those are _impressiones antiqua_. Ancient plants,” Nizar says.

“Fossils.” Severus traces one of the fern impressions on the inside of the bowl. Nizar finds himself staring at the man’s graceful fingers and realizes why everyone keeps vacating their frames in the evening. All right, then; he is blatantly transparent.

“The one who made this Pensieve carved the fossils to make them more visible instead of buffing them out of the stone,” Severus says.

“Keeping what nature left behind makes the magic stronger. It’s a lovely _Pensife_. A lot of effort went into crafting it. I hate to put it back in a barrow, but it isn’t mine to keep.”

Severus puts it down on the table again. “You say _Pensife_ , not Pensieve. What’s the difference?”

“ _Sife_ and sieve are the same word, almost—they both mean ‘to sift.’” Nizar walks over and runs his finger around the edge of the _Pensife_. “You have no idea how nice it was to remember a Brittonic word. _Pen_ is Common Brittonic for head.”

“Let me see if I’m understanding this properly.” A disgruntled expression is back on Severus’s face. “Someone once created one of the most useful magical tools in existence, and they named it _head-sifter_.”

Nizar resists the urge to laugh. “Maybe the inventor was fond of accuracy. Besides, wand is a Saxon term for _flexible stick_.”

“That is infinitely more forgivable than head-sifter. Why did you go grave-robbing to temporarily acquire a Pensieve?” Severus asks.

“Because I needed to show you a memory,” Nizar says. “I promised someone I wouldn’t repeat their words. It isn’t my fault they didn’t ask me not to show someone else the memory of what was said.”

Severus turns away from the table and grants Nizar a smile—a real smile, one that Nizar has been hoping to see again for years now. He’s missed that expression. That is Severus without the mask of spy or teacher. That’s the brilliant mind, the curiosity and kindness that kept a teenager coming back to a portrait again and again, and found him resuming the habit the moment the opportunity presented itself.

“Nizar, you are absolutely amazing.”

He grins at the compliment. “I know. I really am.”

Severus tilts his head in amusement. “And not an arrogant bone in your body, I see.”

“It’s not arrogance if I can actually do as I claim,” Nizar counters. Severus is standing very close to him, and it’s not the shoulder-to-shoulder companionship Nizar is used to. This is—this is something else.

Nizar forgets about breathing when Severus leans forward and nuzzles Nizar’s cheek. His lips are right next to Nizar’s ear when he says, “If I were to be exceptionally forward, would you mind it?”

The low rumble, the hot breath over the sensitive skin of his ear—both cause Nizar to draw in a shaky breath. “No. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Severus runs his hand down his sleeve, leaving a trail of warmth that makes Nizar shiver. Severus’s hair is tickling Nizar’s nose, still holding the faintest hint of mint.

“Severus?”

“Shh.” Severus has a look of brow-furrowed concentration on his face when he pushes forward until Nizar’s back is pressed against the wall. “Just—let me?”

Nizar nods in acquiescence. Severus touches his face, exploring Nizar’s hair, skin, the curve of his brow and lip, the line of his neck. The feel of that man’s long, clever fingers tracing his skin is going to drive him to complete desperation.

Severus’s lips curl up in a smile. “Does it really take so little to capture your interest?”

Nizar makes an incoherent sound. He would wax poetic about what is currently capturing his interest, but that requires words.

Severus’s smile widens. “I have actually managed to shut you up.”

Nizar nods again. It’s been a long time for him, but also, it’s just—he wasn’t lying to Severus when he said he’s been thinking rather inappropriate thoughts about Slytherin’s Head of House since 1982.

Severus takes Nizar’s face in a gentle grasp and kisses him. Nizar relishes the feel of lips that immediately open to his questing tongue. Severus moans into his mouth and then presses the full length of his body against Nizar, pinning him to the wall; Severus’s hand has the back of Nizar’s hair in a tight grip that is just shy of pain.

Nizar thinks he should feel trapped, but he doesn’t. He feels…he feels _safe_. “Oh, gods,” he says in a hoarse whisper.

“Not entirely wordless, I see.” Severus reaches down and palms Nizar’s groin, putting heat and pressure against his prick. Nizar lets out a pathetic, completely inarticulate gurgle. “Better.”

Nizar nips at Severus’s skin and misses. It’s very irritating to be six inches shorter; it means he has to wrap his legs around Severus’s waist and hoist himself up while clinging to Severus’s shoulders.

Severus chuckles against his lips, warm and vibrant. “In a hurry, are we?” he asks, dipping his head to deliver tiny, sharp bites to the delicate skin of Nizar’s neck.

“Yes!” Nizar nearly cracks his skull on the wall when his head drops back in response. “If you say you’re not, you’re lying.”

Severus lifts his head, kisses him again, and then smiles against Nizar’s lips. “I’m not,” he lies, and angles his hips to rock up against him.

Nizar’s eyes roll up, his lips falling open. “Severus—”

“No; I’m still trying for nonverbal,” Severus reminds him in a growl. He grabs Nizar’s wrist and holds it against the wall, staring into Nizar’s eyes. “Stay put.”

Nizar swallows hard, thinking that being held down and fucked by this man is quite possibly one of the greatest bits of anticipation he’s ever felt in his life.

He knows the moment Severus must have seen the thought, that it was right behind Nizar’s eyes instead of behind his shielding. Severus’s eyes widen and seem to become perfectly black.

Nizar has an apology on his lips before Severus bodily picks him up and takes him over to the sofa. Severus lowers Nizar down without letting go. He presses their lips together again once they’re both stretched out on the sofa, but his free hand is back on Nizar’s wrist, holding it firmly against the sofa cushion.

“Later,” Severus murmurs against his neck. “Just…later.” He goes back to kissing Nizar while his free hand undoes the button to Nizar’s trousers.

Oh. _Oh_. Useful—he can be bloody useful. Nizar reaches for the top of Severus’s trousers, fumbling several times before he remembers buttons and zippers, _not laces_. Then he has the button undone, zipper pulled down, and can touch the hard length that has been teasing him through layers of thick fabric.

Severus releases a soundless groan and then plants his teeth on the column of Nizar’s throat, biting hard enough that Nizar whimpers. The sound becomes longer and drawn-out when Severus gets into his trousers and frees his prick from confinement. Nizar digs his feet into the sofa cushions so he can lift his lips, letting out an overwhelmed breath when they slide together.

Severus bucks up against his hips, setting a pace that is fast and almost brutal. Nizar tries to outlast him, he really does, but it’s been too long. Sensation is still new. “Oh—oh, gods, I’m—” The rest of his words emerge as a low whine as he shudders out his release.

“Nizar!” Severus thrusts against him a few more times before he is swearing under his breath, hips jerking as he bites his lip to still his own cry. His hand clamps down around Nizar’s wrist so hard that Nizar knows he’ll find bruises there later, and he doesn’t care at all.

“Oh, God,” Severus murmurs, resting his face against Nizar’s shoulder. “Oh, God, Nizar.”

“Severus.” Nizar smiles, ignoring the dry feeling in his throat. “I’m keeping you. It’s something we Slytherins do. I hope you’re not offended.”

Severus nuzzles against the side of his head and along Nizar’s face like a cat. “I’m not offended at all.”

“Stay here with me tonight? That tub is conspiring, and I know we can both fit in it for a bath,” Nizar says.

In answer, Severus takes Nizar’s hand in a gentle grasp, pulls him up from the sofa, and guides him to the bathroom. “I want to see all of you.”

Nizar smiles. “Scars.”

“Dark Mark.” Severus sounds grieved by that.

Nizar shakes his head and unbuttons the silk white shirt that Severus is wearing. He slides it off, revealing pale skin that’s never seen enough sunlight. It’s like viewing pristine territory, despite the occasional scar provided by the last war. Then he takes Severus’s bared left arm in his hands, letting his fingers trace the Dark Mark. “I do not fear this,” he says gently. “And I never will.”

Severus stares at him, pausing in the middle of unbuttoning Nizar’s shirt. “You seem confident of that.”

“Mm.” Nizar tries not to become utterly distracted by the fact that warm hands and talented fingers are touching his chest. “Take off your damned pants, Severus.”

Severus removes Nizar’s shirt before his hand grazes the white scar that climbs over his shoulder. That had been an incident that really drove home the lesson on how important it was to find cover when necessary. “Trousers. Then pants.”

“Truis, trews, trousers, pants. Whatever.” Nizar hauls Severus in for another kiss. “Ridiculous terminology. Most of the kids in England don’t know how many jokes about pricks and vaginas are packed into every single play that bastard Shakespeare ever wrote. Utterly unfair to leave them so uneducated.”

“You’re a babbler. This is sure to be entertaining,” Severus says, and finally gets them into the bathtub. Nizar doesn’t care about being labeled a babbler; he is in blissfully warm, soapy water with a naked man who actually likes him.

“Should we have done this?”

Nizar lifts one eyebrow and gives Severus a look of polite disbelief. “That is a _stupid_ question.”

“I’m glad your opinion is so certain. I ask because you’re shaking,” Severus says.

Is he? Nizar lifts his own hands and observes a minute tremor to his fingers. “Not because I didn’t want this, believe me. It’s just—one day you develop impossible feelings for someone you can never have. Then suddenly they’re available, someone who can be spoken to and touched.” Nizar reaches out and threads his hand through Severus’s silken black hair. “I don’t think I’m over that part, not yet.”

Severus’s eyes half-close in reaction to the caress. “I do understand that. Completely.”

“Dear gods, we’re both hopeless romantics,” Nizar says, and bursts out into completely inappropriate laughter. Severus rolls his eyes, but Nizar can see that he’s fighting a smile.

Sharing a bed, wrapped up in someone else’s long, slender and muscled limbs, soothes a part of Nizar that he didn’t realize was dissatisfied. He feels himself relaxing for the first time in literal ages. He’d had someone once, nothing more than a friend, but lying with Peregrine had always made him feel like he was anchored to existence. It’s nice to feel that again.

“Nizar?”

“Only thinking,” Nizar replies. “I just haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“You were lonely. Before the portrait.”

“A bit,” Nizar admits. “I think I must have been.”

Severus pulls him closer. “Sleep. I don’t think you have been, not truly.”

“Probably not,” Nizar mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

 _Because these moments always end_ , Nizar thinks, but falls asleep before he remembers to answer.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently not physically capable of keeping up with answering every comment, but I want you to know I appreciate and adore every single blasted one of them. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nizar Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11572173) by [Gryffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffe/pseuds/Gryffe)




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